Older
by that tanned idiot
Summary: Murtagh lives with Thorn in the elves' forest from Eragon's insistence. In between the countless branches and seasons he begins to find aspects around and inside of himself he's been previously blind to. - A large story told in bits with eventual MxOC
1. Lies of Truth

**Lies of Truth**

There was a story that the elves whispered about. To the younger generation, this tale felt like it was as old as the trees that swayed in the wind, mysterious and the foundations hidden below.

The children tittered about it while the adults who truly knew hushed them, saying that they will explain it when they are older and can understand. This was because The Myth tied into the war of the races and the gone dragons, of evil that had not been seen before or since. It touched on how the world had been torn and burned, and yet a hope had shown and had been sung in the dawn of new days.

A few rebellious elven had ventured to where this man clouded in mystery apparently lived and breathed in the thicket of their trees, but they always returned confused. That, or they refused to talk about their journey, as if they had shunned it from their memories. They shook their pointy-eared heads before going back to their life, an odd sort of wisdom making them cautious in how they talked or moved around the subject. Most believed those who went to explore were too proud to admit to their foolishness, to believe that there was an everlasting human in their presence who had become a hermit of his own accord.

For The Myth was that the Savior Rider's twisted brother was in the woods, in a cave where he sat and played with fire. He was unable to communicate with the outside world from his actions that he was forced into, when he was young and powerless to the Rider of the Black Dragon that the elven had dubbed Sunkiller. Quite a few were still alive from the war and sometimes they said the overlord's true name, but it was a word that had been banished from text and, when those individuals eventually become a true part of the forest, would fade into oblivion.

Eragon Shadeslayer or Eragon Worldsaver had sailed off with his Brightscales dragon Saphira, never to be seen or truly heard of again. Some had been fearful even of this great savior, wondering what he would do with his almost endless life created from his bond with the glorious creature. They wondered if he will ever sail back onto the banks of their world, corrupted by whatever was past the horizon.

But most speculate on his brother that had been left behind. There is a seed of truth in The Myth, but most of it was exaggeration brought on by unknowing among the younger, post-war generation. For, you see, The Myth of the rider of Crimsonfire living in the woods was not fiction.

It was reality.

And that man in the true story, who still looked so youthful despite the decades and centuries, sat and watched the sunrise every morning. He marveled how the shades of color in the dawn sky changed from midnight black to that of deep blue before even that dissipated to shades of red.

He watches and lives.

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Color theme **080: Indigo**; Word Count: 500

Posted on the 20th of December, 2010

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**Disclaimer**: I abdicate any claim of ownership on the novels in the _Inheritance Cycle_ which rightfully belongs to Chirstopher Paolini and his storytelling.

**A Brief Explanation of My Text**: I've finally read_ Brisingr_ and I've been inspired to write something for this series. I know my story and ideas are bound to be deemed un-canon when the 4th book comes out, but I can't help writing now since the inspiration is hot. Maybe I'll come back and edit accordingly when everything is revealed. **On the genre choices:** yes, there will be romance. But it is (very) slow in coming for a variety of reasons.

**A Note of Thanks**: The base foundation for this story's chapters will be based on the 100colors challenge on LJ, because I think I need themes to give me structure and keep me going. Each chapter will range in length, but be at least 100 words, and will be based upon one of the 100 colors. Like many, I enjoy feedback on my efforts and reviews would be wonderful and are encouraged to keep me going. So, lastly, thanks for reading and I hope you continue on with the story! :)

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	2. Permanent Visit

**Permanent Visit**

_Roughly two centuries ago..._

Murtagh felt his teeth clatter together as Thorn decended with a thud, his claws burying and ripping the ground before he tucked his wings in.

The vibrant dragon lowered his neck with care and a slight whine of happiness to be freed of the exhaustion of continuous flight and Murtagh ran his hand over his scaly neck as he bounded from the juncture of his shoulder to his forearm and then to the grassy ground beneath. He noted when he soundlessly landed how the glass swayed under his worn leather boots in the newest Spring season, the small seeds sprouting from the blades weak against the air. The dark-haired rider contemplated bending down and running his hands through the soft grass, so used to dried mud and course blood-caked fields, but then he remembered why he was here as a figure came out of the tree house that loomed above.

Looking up, Murtagh just caught the blur of his half-brother falling from the gnarled branches before he was before him, a wide smile stretching his flawless face.

"Murtagh."

Resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste at the way Eragon said his name, no hint of malice or anger and only of acceptance and almost pity, Murtagh inclined his head in his own silent greeting.

"Arya and I were wondering when you would be arriving," Eragon said as he raised his arm to waist-height; Murtagh took the hint and graped Eragon's arm as he did the same, just above their elbow junctions.

As he said this, the elf herself appeared above them on the porch, her long hair pulled up and showing her face in its fullest. Narrowing his eyes, Murtagh noted how she didn't look a day older than when he and Eragon had saved her from that dark, dank and delirious-inducing dungeon. But while she had been sickly and pale, she now seemed healthy and proud. Her skin had become kissed with sunlight and her green eyes seemed lighter and flashed with light that did not come only from the sun above.

Eragon wordlessly bound back up the tree while Murtagh gave a nod to Thorn, who gratefully went off to hunt, and stood in front of the tree until Eragon threw down a ladder.

He felt the wood give support to his feet and the course rope press against his calloused hands as he swiftly climbed. When he finished his ascent, he let out a soft grunt and finally climbed over the edge. He swung his legs up and brought his figure up to its full, looming height.

Murtagh inclined his head to Arya as well, who mirrored the action before twisting to turn back into the tree house.

Murtagh did not know what expression Eragon would show him when he turned back to him. Yet he especially did not expect how his brown eyes to be clouded over, dark like they had been in the all-consuming war time that still felt fresh. They were not so troubled as to appear black, like they had been when Murtagh attempted to capture him those several times, but they did not hold that lightness that had been slowly coming on through after the dark king had been slain. In addition, his arched eyebrows were a little lowered as well, and his lips were set in a grim line.

"We must talk," the famed dragon rider said lowly and softly.

Murtagh sighed and dipped his head, his long hair moving over his shoulders while his bangs obstructed his vision. He knew from that simple statement that it was finally time to give up the brief freedom he had been finally allowed to indulge in.

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Color theme **012: Mahogany**; Word Count: 615

Posted on the 21st of December, 2010


	3. Steam Rising

**Steam Rising**

Eragon and Murtagh sat in silence together as they waited for Arya.

While his half-brother stared out the glassless window to the canopy that the house barely stood above, Murtagh's light eyes followed the graceful movements of the elven would-be-Queen as she moved around the kitchen basin. She was arranging for tea, as showed when she brought the full kettle to her mate.

His gaze from the window moved to see Eragon mutter his almost trademark fire word, the water coming to a boil in a few moments. Arya then took it back, placing herbs into the warmed water, before she let it sit and seep. After a few more minutes of silence and waiting, the tea was ready. She carefully poured the drink into two ceramic cups that seemed to be gilded on the rims.

Even though the smell that wafted from the herbal drink was soft, Murtagh did not feel the least bit relaxed. When he was given his cup, he did not drink from it and instead grasped it tightly. Murtagh thought the cup might shatter, but it held fast.

"Tell me why you keep me from a life I have just been given," Murtagh demanded, his voice low and gravely. He heard Thorn's lighter voice in his head ask why they were not already leaving and he answered, asking the dragon to come back to the home.

Eragon took another sip from his hot drink before he cleared his throat and said, "The elves are wary."

"That's not a surprise, considering this still unfortified peacetime. Especially with your leave," Murtagh answered.

"They are worried about you, Murtagh."

He blinked slowly before looking down at his tea, seeing that it'd been seeping long enough to become a darker color, the clear water taking on a sepia tone. The murky color contrasted against his bright white knuckles. He noticed that a small crack had formed on one of the edges; apparently the cup was not as strong like he had first assumed. Another example of his ability to see weakness in people and things and exploit it. Or, at least, that was what Galbatorix had commended him on.

"You have been flying around the entire country, doing nothing, while the peace negotiations have been commencing," Eragon continued with.

"I have been idle as the realm desires."

"But everyone wonders why you skulk around and do not directly meet with others. Just last month the dwarfs said they saw Thorn perched on the abandoned castle at the lake at Farthern Dur and you did not even go to greet them to offer your presence."

"I did not feel I had reason to," Murtagh rebutted quickly.

Eragon sighed and rubbed at his temples in small circles. After a few moments of this he spoke.

"Can you even contemplate what the elves have been hammering in my ears these past days, not to mention weeks, for letting you just fly around in your leisure?"

"It is my right to fly free," Murtagh said firmly, and then heard a roar from above that must have been from Thorn. He also mentally felt the creature bellow in agreement, this time using words, but the dragon was mostly too wrapped up with playing with Saphira who had just come back from hunting as well.

"And you will always be free, Murtagh," Eragon said in a similarly serious tone.

"And I took their oaths..." Murtagh said as he lifted a hand to move through his long hair, remembering the night after the battle and the beating drums as his voice became one with the other pointy-eared magicians. He had sworn to uphold their rules in their land, and to never allow evil to fester if he could help it. He promised to restrain his power in their fear of him overtaking Eragon, and so the elves and then the world.

"I know," he answered, his voice softer.

"How dare they declare they need more-"

"We do not need anything from you, yet you steal from the world their carefree mind sets that have not even had time to properly form," Arya said as she sat down on another side of their round, tree-trunk slice table.

"If someone is as naive as to believe the world-"

"Murtagh Moransson," Eragon interrupted, making Murtagh stand up in a start. He heard his chair legs squeal on the ground and felt a grim satisfaction as the couple winced from the sound. But it went as fast as it had come, unlike his anger.

"I told you never to call me that," he said in a loud, borderline yelling, voice.

When he saw Eragon's arched eyebrows further furrow, Murtagh realized that this was not how he should be reacting. Eragon had not even truly said anything of importance yet. Feeling like he was swallowing his tongue, Murtagh sat back down and told himself to breath.

When he heard a whine, he looked over and saw Thorn stick his head into the room, slowly blinking his one visible eye closed. He then took some of his rider's turmultuous emotions as his own, and Murtagh felt his shoulders finally lower and relax. Thorn went even further, flicking his tongue out and licking up Murtagh's long hair to an verticle degree. Murtagh winced as he felt some hair get torn from the rough tongue.

"What do you propose?" he asked as Thorn offered his own whine.

But Murtagh already had a hinting to what Eragon would say.

The brunette would talk of how the elves could keep him in check. In this forest, they could store him away from the world outside that was still afraid of the power riders like them possessed. Here he would have limited freedom, but freedom none-the-less. Here he would not be hunted down in anger caused by unknowing and fear. Here he could hovel away in the peacetime.

And even though Murtagh despised elves and hated, more than anything else, being restrained, he fundamentally understood Eragon.

And he understood that this was his best option if he did not want to live on the run the rest of his life from people who would exploit him in a breath. The elves knew the power of the riders and dragons and respected it. Even though he had been twisted from the very beginning, they respected him.

Murtagh supposed he could at least attempt to be civil to them.

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Color theme **068: Sepia**; Word Count: 1,070

Posted on the 24th of December, 2010


	4. Reflective Surfaces and Minds

**A Note on the Text**: Like in the series, shared and/or projected thoughts are in italics.

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**Reflective Surfaces and Minds**

_You are frustrated._

It was more of a statement than question, and Murtagh grunted against the wind.

_And if I am?_ the rider asked back his dragon.

The great scale beast hummed lightly for a moment before he did a sudden barrel roll he hadn't been planning, making Murtagh hurry to grab on to one of his massive arched scales and tighten his legs. He cursed himself for not doing the stirrups in his haste to get some air.

_Thorn!_

_You needed it_, the dragon said with a booming laugh. Then, with a bellow of his lungs, he let out a shot of fire. It singed the clouds in front and the pure jet of heat looked like fresh, spitting lava.

Murtagh rolled his eyes at the display as he they tipped to the side, facing the dipping sun that had just touched the rim of trees. Dispite the way the sun's light reflected on the clouds in an array of soft pinks and Thorn's numerous scales shone light as well, Murtagh did not find what was before him beautiful. He did not find the forest gorgeous like most, because it threatened to capture him in its branches and never let go, allowing the roots the elves loved so much to suck him down and under.

_Your Brother is correct,_ Thorn inwardly voiced, breaking Murtagh out of his gazing and pessimistic thoughts; _We are careless to our influence._

_When have you started being intellegent?_ his rider answered with a question and scoff.

_Saphira is very wise._

_And always vainly foolish, as you've no doubt picked up that twist from her._

Thorn gave a rumble of noise from deep in his throat in an noncommittal manner before he began pumping his wings and rearing forward. His wings fanning out before he landed on one of the huge trees that was at least three times larger than even his mass.

_You can learn many things from her still_, Murtagh thought blandly as Thorn fully settled.

_As you can from Eragon._

Murtagh thought of how useless these thoughts were, as both were going away. He growled then like Thorn before stating, _My younger sibling cannot teach anything other then how to be spineless._

A tip of wing came out and attempted to bat the dark-haired human on the head, but he ducked out of the clawed tip's way in the last second.

"Watch it!" Murtagh verbally yelled for emphasis.

_You need to watch yourself. Eragon is being considerate, as are the elves. They are opening the arms of their forest for us._

_Out of fear_, Murtagh quickly reminded.

_Not everyone_, Thorn reminded as flashes of Eragon and his twisted face of internal pain as they fought with swords, snarls and sparks. But then Thorn rocketed off the tree, making it creak in protest and for an explosion of leaves to follow_._

They flew back then, facing away from the sunset, as Murtagh felt the wind russle his long hair. He wondered if he should push Thorn to not use trees the way he just had, and then remembered that even his smallest thoughts were open to the scaled beast as Thorn cackled again and let out a second jet of fire.

_We might have to cooperate with them, but that doesn't mean we have to do it perfectly_, Thorn said with a hint of rebellion.

Amused, Murtagh allowed a slight smile that no one would ever see.

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Color theme **016: Coral**; Word Count: 575

Posted on the 26th of December, 2010


	5. Ancient Acceptance

**Ancient Acceptance**

Murtagh resisted the urge to curl his lip up and sneering at the elves whose eyes crucially followed him. He kept his face straight and stony like Eragon who walked right aside of him, both their bodies stiff. They kept their eyes straight as their spines.

Murtagh was thankful for the countless time that none of them could break the haven that was his own head. He knew no matter how many gazes of different emotions were thrown at him he would not bow mentally or physically. Inside he could think what he want without worry. He had decided if the elves even attempted to take this privilege away from him he would fly off in a calm fashion without a word.

_I do not desire that_, Thorn stated as he walked behind him, his muscular bulk walking alongside Saphira's slimmer one. Both their scales shone from the fires all around. Murtagh noted that sometimes the reflective dots from their scales coincided on the same spot, the colors melding to be flashes of a deep purple. It reminded him of the vines he'd passed in his youth on rich human properties, the grapes hanging and just waiting to be fermented into wine. Waiting to make humans foolish and stupid. Waiting to dispel any type of inhibition.

The walk wasn't necessarily long, but it seemed to take a long time for the two fellow riders to stand before Queen Islanzadí. Her dark raven hair had gotten even longer since Thorn had seen her in vicious battle as it draped around the throne she was perched on.

"Two Kingslayers, it is quite an honor," the stunningly beautiful elf said as she rose, her layers of white silk ruffling with a whisper. "The air has not crackled with this much power since all three riders had converged here. But it seems that red and blue are quite sufficient on their own without our green."

Eragon inclined his head and when Murtagh didn't follow for a moment, his brown eyes darted over and narrowed in warning. Begrudgingly, Murtagh lowered his head as well.

"We have called you here, Murtagh Namechanger, to accept you into our society."

Even though he had never found the elves as mystical and ethereal as fellow humans, Murtagh couldn't help the slight intake of breath from hearing her voice address him not as Moransson like he'd been expecting. He glanced over to Eragon who was beaming, and wondered if it he had a part to do with the different name addition. But then the Queen's humming voice returned, this time in the ancient language. Her voice had taken on a new edge, a fierce and loyal one to traditions, but soft in the material and when dealing with Murtagh.

When her voice ended, the other voices around resounded. Murtagh picked up the high and pure voices of children and looked across. Their youthful, glowing faces stared back at him blankly.

Soon the voices ended in their harmony and Murtagh looked up expectantly to the Queen.

Once again breaking out of the ancient language, as if to respect his own horrible human heritage, she asked, "Murtagh, Rider of Thorn Crimsonfire, do you accept our humble invitation?"

The air around the throng of elves seemed to still in wait, and Murtagh felt himself holding his breath along with the rest. But then Thorn was nudging him from behind and he said, "You do not require myself to take oaths?"

She flicked some of her pitch black hair back over shoulder as she stated, "You have previously done this. We do not wish to be like Galbatorix and force you in to limiting your life-giving freedom."

"You trust me to restrain my behavior?" Murtagh couldn't help but blurt out.

The half-millennium old elf raised an eyebrow and said with confidence, "My people can protect themselves, as we prevailed during the war."

Again, Murtagh had to bite his tongue in resistance and to remind it was really only because of the figure standing abreast of him who somehow managed to convince them to come out from their overhanging trees- Murtagh shook his head and dispelled the thoughts.

"You are now officially welcome to live with us," Islanzadí said, and the voices of everyone else began humming the air again.

Murtagh expected a headache to come from their ringing voices, but instead he only felt a pleasant ringing in his ears from the hundreds of melding tones.

"I accept."

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Color theme **052: Grape**; Word Count: 746

Posted on the 29th of December, 2010


	6. And They Spun

**And They Spun**

Eragon clapped Murtagh on the shoulder as the elven community spun and danced around the fire. Their skins were bright with a sheen of effort and being around so many other warm bodies. Their arms snaked out for each others while they bended their torsos in ways that had Murtagh wincing. There was some foreign, controlled chaos in the way they all moved so uniquely. But the oddest thing was how they still held the image of one group, one race. One family.

"You did well," Eragon said as he sat down, the grass cushioning his ungraceful action that had Murtagh a little surprised. Usually Eragon was graceful in his actions (or at least since the Blood-Oath Ceremony). Murtagh reasoned that he must have been partaking in their berry elixir or something of the like. His wide smile hinted at that much if anything, but the famous rider had been growing in happiness through the days. It was obvious as the fact the sun would raise the next day no matter how many lives were lost or how the land had barely been saved from evil.

Murtagh sat away from the fire and instead leaned against Thorn's belly, which lent him more than enough heat. The dragon himself hummed along to the drums and Murtagh felt the comforting contraction of his lungs. At times a puff of smoke would come from his nostrils or he would let out a growl to join the music.

He had asked Thorn if he wanted to dance, but he had seemed reluctant and Murtagh had seen the way his eyes flitted to the only other dragon on the opposite side of the bonfire. Elves jumped on and around her in glee, sliding down her smooth scales and petting her snout in adoration and devotion.

His rider understood all this, so he simply leaned against his flank until Thorn decided to do something about it. Murtagh wasn't going to push him to grow up and be brave. To act older than he truly was- his dragon had had enough of that for another lifetime.

"The elves love their celebrations to commemorate nothing," Murtagh replied after he watched a few more lithe bodies go by, arms raised with their harmonious voices.

"They are happy to have another powerful being in their presence," the brunette said.

"More like disposal," the elder sibling joked, and Eragon gave a snort like sound that made Murtagh positive he was drunk.

He noticed Eragon's ears were flushed on the edges, and it seemed even his usually dark brown tresses of hair were brighter. Sometimes the locks caught the light and looked metallic, the coppery color further being reflected in his dazed eyes.

"You are more powerful than me in some aspects," Eragon conceded.

"Don't you mean _all_?" Murtagh rebuked, vulnerable to his egotistical tendencies.

"But who has the elves trust? Who has partners who will fight to the death with me? Who do I have to give me strength and the will to continue?"

This had Murtagh quiet for a while, until a deep huff from Thorn interrupted his blank-slate mind. Then Thorn stood (Murtagh leaned forward to avoid the rough press of scales as Eragon gave a somehow dignified half-lung away) and gave a roar that had the instruments and bodies stilling. Murtagh didn't bother looking up at his dragon and did not watch him bound over the bodies and fire to Saphira.

"What is he doing?" Eragon asked in a hushed voice.

"He's going to initiate a dance of their own," Murtagh answered for his dragon.

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Color theme **038: Copper**; Word Count: 600

Posted on the 3rd of January, 2011 (Happy New Year!)


	7. As One They Converged

**As One They Converged**

Murtagh watched and couldn't help the shiver (as if his bones were shaking from the volume) as he heard his dragon roar for a second time.

While Saphira had seemed ignorant to his first roar, she now slowly rose, her powerful and lean body rising to stand in front of Thorn's. She craned her neck to look at him. The elves that had been draped around her had skittered off long ago.

The rest of elves understood what they needed to do, as they seemed to drain away to the edges of the clearing where Murtagh and Eragon were sitting upon a low branch, moving so they could see past the figures. The area around the fire was now empty, leaving the two dragons to move without worry of crushing any underneath their massive, shining claws or teeth.

In the light their fangs gleamed like bleached bone and as they began to circle around the fire, their scales reflected over the entire span of the grassy field. They stalked around the fire countless times before Thorn sprung across of it to Saphira. The blue dragon paired Thorn by jumping to where he had been. He roared in amusement and their dance escalated, now bounding over the fire. They let their tails and limbs brush, if only for fleeting moments. Then they were leaping apart.

The flames flickering against their scales altered them to be brighter, but when their bodies became close the colors melded on both their bodies. Thorn's color became a deeper red from her blue. Saphira's scales darkened from his reflected red to that of the deep sea, where creatures of their own size swam.

Eragon opened his mouth to question where Thorn had learned this, but Murtagh answered for Thorn without the question. "He makes it up as he goes," he said truthfully.

Murtagh heard him whisper something in an amazed tone, but a new development in their partners' form had occurred.

Now they were up on their hind-legs, show casing their stomachs to each other in daring trust with their membraned wings outstretched, helping them balance and making them rightfully seem the grandest beasts in the land. They did playful snips at each other. Even at a distance, any could see their wide, dangerous smirks.

They only stayed that way for a short time, scuttling around the fire for a full circle with their wings hiding the flames that glowed through their membranes, before they simultaneously sprung into the night air, their silent ascent suddenly crowded with the excited yells of the elves.

There, in the star splattered sky, their bodies moved in grace that was only outmatched by the other. Their bodies seemed almost invisible in the inky vastness, and Murtagh had to stain his eyes in what he knew the elves had no problem viewing with their heightened sense.

But Murtagh enjoyed the way he could watch them block out the shining stars with their massive bodies, their colors dull in the darkness while their roars seemed to shake the full moon above.

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Color theme **058: Blue Violet**; Word Count: 500

Posted on the 7th of January, 2011


	8. Discretion

**Discretion**

Even though the dragons twisting high in the sky were ethereal, Eragon realized the meaning of it quickly. While he had been a little foolish in his drunken state, he now seemed solemn and his eyes moved away from Saphira and Thorn after a few long moments.**  
**

"Are they dancing to celebrate or in leaving?"

Murtagh darted his eyes away from the sky to glance at Eragon before turning back. He felt that was enough and it was; Eragon was quiet.

In the half-brothers' muteness they melded in with the silence of the night like their dragons in the sky.

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Color theme **084: Midnight**; Word Count: 100

Posted on the 8th of January, 2011


	9. Sails of Promise

**Sails of Promise**

The rider and dragon stood on the edges of the shore and watched the boat float into the distance.

The creamy, light sails of the vessel melded with the bright blue sky above the deep mysterious water. The dark blue spread in every direction and Murtagh wondered if there truly was anything past it and if Eragon would find a new land and the hope of new shores bringing peace to his mind and body. To allow the waves to bring him to a new destination and lap away his taxing responsibilities. Murtagh felt a shot of surprise as he hoped that the man who he was tied to with blood would find peace. He had brought it to the world; he had helped free Murtagh from a destiny that would have suffocated and killed him so slow and so painfully.

The rider felt his dark eyes flit to the unknown, well-built man nearby who had tears in his eyes and was expressing his sadness out with yells. Even his sobs couldn't help stop his ear-ringing yells of pain and longing that couldn't be helped from watching the vessel leave.

And suddenly Thorn's own thunderous voice broke out as he looked from the receding boat to the sky. Murtagh saw through him the two spiraling dragons intertwining in the clouds; their colors flitted through the haze of white. Murtagh was slightly blind-sided by the gnawing desire to fly up to them; to fly up to _her_.

Murtagh wanted to help his dragon battle the pain of being abandoned, Murtagh's mind seemed to shut down to that ability. He realized he was in a similar situation, the only person he would even remotely call family was sailing away, never to return. But he did manage to lift his hand and place it on Thorn's forearm, his fingertips feeling the coolness of his vibrant scales that looked like they were on fire.

After a few more bellows of sorrow, the dragon lowered his head and his snout butted against Murtagh's chest. This familiar action usually had Murtagh bowled over on his back, but now they were both so stricken with grief they dared not move away from each other.

_Don't be mad with heartbreak,_ Murtagh said with a heavy undertone of pleading. So much pain from his beautiful, powerful dragon - it made his own heart almost shatter as well. But Murtagh was not going to allow that; one of them needed to at least pretend to be strong.

_I miss her already. She is so beautiful; I want her to be happy._

_Hopefully she will be, even if you're not there with her._

_The green one_, he stated with defeat.

Murtagh felt another wave of lung-wretching emotion, so he lowered his forehead to rest on Thorn's down snout and lifted his hands to cover his massive eyes.

Murtagh suddenly couldn't hear or give a care to the supposed-cousin next to him who Saphira had told him with caution was more of a brother to Eragon then he ever had the chance to be. He couldn't hear the morns and yells of the crowds far behind, dotting the hill to watch their savior leave this world for a one beyond. He couldn't hear the instruments and singers the new Queen Nasuada had brought with her.

All Murtagh could feel and hear was his dragon's deep, labored breathing (like they had just flown a great distance without rest) and his thumping heart that was out of time with his own.

While Murtagh closed off the world from himself, he allowed Thorn to feel his own bitter feelings and he took Thorn's pain as his own. They gave and took.

And because Thorn couldn't cry himself, Murtagh did for him.

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Color theme **027: Cream**; Word Count: 630

Posted on the 12th of January, 2011


	10. Skew

**Skew**

_Present day..._

Even though Eragon had been calm and logical when he had rambled off the number of advantages to Murtagh living with the elves, Murtagh knew that changing his and Thorn's lone lifestyle honestly wasn't an option.

Like Eragon's nature of trying to work things out in a peaceful way rather than blunt confrontation, he had tried to make it sound like an advantage. Here he could learn even more words (because it seemed the Ancient Language had as many tomes as total speakers) and the elves could teach Thorn the way to fly - the _right _way to fly. Not the way the Shruikan had been forced to learn and then had been forced to teach Thorn. The best way to gauge an enemy's guts and hearts was not the right way fly.

And maybe it was positive for his fate, but Murtagh knew that he would still be confined. And maybe that exactly was his sole fate: to always be in the grip of another.

While the elves were scared, it was understandable to a fundamental level. They were just about to embark into a new, long-desired peacetime and were now acutely aware to dangers, should they present themselves. The rider supposed that he, whose mind and will had been twisted by the darkest king himself, wasn't entirely safe for the world outside a powerful forest.

He had seen their slicing gazes towards him through the fire all those nights ago still. The deep, glowing red mulberry sparks did nothing to hide their soundless caution.

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Color theme **069: Mulberry**; Word Count: 250

Posted on the 14th of January, 2011


	11. Society Will Stream Endlessly

**Society Will Stream Endlessly**

Murtagh had learned throughout the years, from his small place in the forest, how lax elven society truly was.

There were positions that need to be filled in the community just like any other, but once they were, worries for that subject usually disappeared. If there was a master there was no worries, because elves lived far beyond humans. The elves did not usually have to worry about inheritances and heirs and who would come next or the worries of wisdom dying with an individual. With elves, their knowledge passed down through numerous generations from a single one from the past. They had the longevity that Murtagh knew of now.

Their days were not demanding like humans who fight against time, or the dwarfs who fight against their crumbling tunnels, or even the Urgals who fight against each other. The only others even slightly similar to them were the Werecats who lounged around, always spread throughout the land with their slitted eyes and meticulously-cleaned fur.

The elves were considerate to each other as well, and in that there was structure. They had a calm respect, and it was that which kept them in check and for their monarch leaders to not worry in this peace time, in this second Golden Age which had been dubbed (redundantly, in Murtagh's opinion) the Silver Age.

It was true that in this worry-less time scholars once again out-populate the warriors, whose only true duty was to chase off humans who had creeped closer and closer to the forest in hopes of more land and wealth. Knowledge could now be expanded upon without the worry of their forest flaring up in flames in wartime.

And if Murtagh were to come out of his solitude he retreated into right away, he would see that not everything in this timeless society was forever. His false beliefs would shatter. He would see that children could soon find a suitable mate and (if they were blessed, as it was becoming increasingly often) parent their own offspring. Murtagh would see how more tree-houses were created in harmony with the forest to accommodate more elves. He would see how their faces would stretch and their hair would grow with their knowledge of magic and of the world outside their protective forest branches of rich green. But because he was far away in an empty forest of his own, he did not notice these things.

He did notice the forest itself though, and how the trees grew and seemed to hold over him even more. It made him angry enough to cut down some.

This obviously angered the elves, who hurried to the sound of death and splitting trunks, but Murtagh demanded that he had to do it. He had to do it so he could see the sky above and know that there was a world beyond their holy nature. The elves had then retreated with the corners of their mouths down-turned; they always left him be. Maybe it was because of pity from being left behind, or in the way he seemed skittish of their society.

But the past-warrior did not give care to the elven lifestyle, like they did to his own, because he was bitter. He was like his downed dragon who didn't fly very much now and slept the daylight away, his scales seeming dull in the shade the trees projected over him.

The two sat and waited for things that they truly never had to return as the world grew around them.

* * *

Color theme ******041: Forest**; Word Count: 592

Posted on the 17th of January, 2011


	12. To Build a Home

**To Build a Home**

Murtagh had been picky and meticulous for the location where he and Thorn would spend their time in the forest.

First off, he wanted water nearby that had fish. The only problem was that the large rivers and lakes were miles away to the East. The elves felt that, as the large bodies of water were far away from the edge of the forest and the core of their society, that would not be allowed as an option. So Murtagh had flown on Thorn's back until they found the largest river, which was just a moderate sized stream, and landed down to decide. It wasn't that small when he wasn't hundreds of feet above it and it had a soft sandy shore that shone with a spattering of worn river rocks. Thorn had immediately leaped into the river once Murtagh had dismounted, allowing his body to dam up the entire thing before it flowed over his scaled body.

Thorn lifted his head and bellowed a roar of acceptance and Murtagh put his hands on his hips, still doubtful and not so easily swayed. In addition to the small river and bank, there was a small clearing of long green grass (probably from a great increase of water in the stream that had ripped the trees away) and there was a spot that looked flat enough for the cottage he was planning to build. The elves had tried to convince him to build a tree-house and he had given them a silent, blank look that had spoken more than enough.

Walking around the clearing, Murtagh noticed there were too many trees and pines for his liking nearby, and so called over Thorn who whined at the order. He seemed to be enjoying the running water from the mountain too much, or maybe it was how he had been filling his time by nipping at the small fish that darted around him in chaos.

_Won't the elves get angry?_

_I'll replant them wherever you propel them. It's just a surprise move for these slow things called trees._

And so Thorn stood out of the river, dripping water onto the bank and grass as he walked to the edges of the small field. He reared his head and used his clawed paw to pull up one tree and then another, throwing them over the forest canopy with ease. As he did this, Murtagh muttered ancient words and the trees landed upright, their roots digging back into the fertile soil. Using more magic, Murtagh covered the gaping holes of the dirt with more from nearby before ordering the grass to grow over. When he was finished, Murtagh sagged against Thorn who had sat aside of him, and his dragon gave him a little of his strength. Murtagh reasoned that it was much easier pulling out the trees than replanting them.

When they looked out and saw the mini-meadow of grass and slight wildflowers of bright yellows and reds, an addition Murtagh hadn't personally seen to, the rider nodded. Thorn gave his own deep growl of contentment, too, as it had plenty room for him to stretch out, as well as land without worry for tearing his membraned wings on branches.

It was only later, now, when Murtagh realized that the canopy for landings wouldn't be a problem, as the dragon mostly lazed around, his tongue flicking out in lame attempts to catch fluttering-by butterflies. But at the time the place had looked only fresh and ready, and so Murtagh set to work building his cabin.

Knowing that the elves would have a true fit if he cut down any trees, he was forced to resort to stalking the woods to find dead trunks whose wood was bleached by the sun and ready to become something else. This part was laborous, as he had to search miles far and wide before hauling them back with Thorn's help, and was only second to building the house itself. He cut the wood into boards with Zar'roc (the metal biting through the wood easily) before nailing them together with the hilt, the ruby glimmering in the light as if in anger for being reduced to such a domestic task as being a hammer.

But build it he did, and when Murtagh stood in contentment, wiping his brow and letting out a sigh, Thorn gave him a nudge from behind. Murtagh slowly turned and saw a group of elves as they set certain things down on the fringe of their forest before slipping back out of sight.

In the sacks and ceramic jars he had found seeds and a small number of labeled plants in pots that would help him be self-sufficient. They also left intricate rugs and pieces of furniture; tables made out of the trunk of a tree and chairs that had carved vines. Or maybe they had sung the vines to crawl before turning them into wood. The item he was most grateful for was the large mattress of pressed cotton and goose feathers, the blankets placed atop feeling of silk and soft wool.

With these items his small, empty house wasn't so empty anymore. When he finished rearranging it all, he again took a moment to sigh. His cabinets and shelves were now covered, if only sparsely, and in the open windowsills sat the few plants. On one of his hooks hung his Father's sword in its hilt, and it seemed out of place. This amused Murtagh as it was the only possession that was truly his to everything else. It seemed a little odd to have so many possessions when he was used to having nothing at all.

Thorn ducked his snout through the archway and had given a snort of smoke that filtered up to the beamed roof.

_Not so bad for our prison_, Murtagh thought to him.

Murtagh remembered how his dragon nodded in return before lumbering back out to the shallow river bank. Yet not before he gave his rider a painful lick up his right cheek that had Murtagh's scowling for a different reason.

* * *

Color theme **094: Sand**; Word Count: 1,000

Posted on the 18th of January, 2011


	13. Something About Us

**Something About Us**

In this cottage and his designated area, Murtagh went through a number of days.

Some were good days, when the sun was hot and it made the river worth it. Thorn and him lounged in the deep, sunken part of the river the dragon had made from his constant use. The river was also helpful in its abundance of food, and Murtagh didn't feel like fishing without the aid of magic was as boring (eventually).

Sometimes it actually felt nice to return to the spot after a hunting trip or a check in with the elves on their insistence. Here he had a bed and the huge, bulking warm body of his dragon.

In this minuscule area in the forest where there wren't any trees, Murtagh would lie on the bright green grass and watch the clouds float by. He remembered how odd it felt the first time he'd flown through one. How clouds were truly just mist and air and had no body; how easily they tore apart or burned with Thorn's fire.

Some were bad days though, when he felt like the trees on the edges were closing in and blocking out his beloved sky. Some days he felt claustrophobic and it made him take to the air with Thorn, his eyes wide and pupils constricted in the need to escape. And this place of wildflowers and a mellow stream seemed evil in how it forced him to come back, to be tied down.

But today wasn't one of those horrid days. Today was a nice day and the sun was at its zenith, the orb looking small but full of energy. And it was today when a group of elves came out of the shadows of the trees and into the revealing clearing.

"Murtagh Namechanger," one called and Murtagh looked up from weeding his garden.

He rose silently and walked over, dusting most of the brown earth from his hands before standing before the small group, his height allowing him to loom over them. Murtagh looked at them under the speckled shadow his straw-hat created and rose an eyebrow in expectation.

"We humbly invite you to attend the Blood-Oath Ceremony which will take place on the next full moon," one of them said, his head slowly inclining as he gave the invitation.

Murtagh rubbed his chin and felt the bristles, absently thinking how he needed to shave. Last century he had opted out, but this time he felt like he shouldn't skimp out of some entertainment. The thought of how he had been here for now roughly two centuries made him frown; he had lost count some decades ago and he didn't quite know how to react to knowing the true date of years again.

_We will be honored to attend, your invitation is most welcoming,_ Thorn answered first.

The elves nodded to the dragon before turning to Murtagh, waiting for him to affirm the answer. When he noded his head curtly once, they repeated the action before disipating back into the trees.

_What has made you feel the need to participate this year? _Thorn asked as Murtagh walked back to his garden.

_I do not know. I have read that they get a little outlandish and unrefined at these things._

_So the boredom has finally begun to set in_, Thorn joked as he lied down with a thud, allowing his entire left flank to simply drop to the ground. And then he began to use his claws to crush out the vibrant red wildflowers that refused to go away, not liking how they imitated his own color in a pathetic way. He left the yellow ones and had to explained to Murtagh how he didn't mind those at all.

Murtagh rolled his eyes at his quirky dragon and the hypocritical statement, and it made Thorn arch his neck around and playfully glare, as if daring Murtagh to keep thinking that.

Instead of challenging the beast, he simply looked up to the sun and bright blue and allowed his muscles to relax.

* * *

Color theme **030: Sky**; Word Count: 677

Posted on the 19th of January, 2011


	14. Roar! the Dragon Did Decree

**Roar! the Dragon Did Decree**

Murtagh looked down over the suddenly still bodies as Thorn circled around.

Thorn had been silent except for the pounding of his wings, but the elves must have sensed them somehow as each glowing face was turned up to them. Murtagh noted that they were stock-still. The only part of them that moved was their cat-like eyes that followed his movements in the inky sky.

When descending to land, they bounded away and Thorn dropped with all his gangrenous weight. The earth shook for a moment more as he slammed his front paws down to follow. Murtagh dismounted quickly with a slide and Thorn tucked his wings in, his tongue darting out in the air to taste the smells and read the situation of celebration.

The elves were silent and still for a few moments more before they erupted in yells and hollers of excitement. This made Thorn rear his head back in shock from the sudden onslaught of noise, but Murtagh calmed him easily enough.

A few notable elves, like the ever-ageless Queen, came and gave him respect as he sat against Thorn's neck. He was a little surprised at their sincerity and welcome, and he wondered when the elves had begun to change from this peace. He must have missed it in his own little part of the woods.

Some braver, or many ignorant, individuals asked him to join their dance. Some were very beautiful women and a few men, which made Murtagh a little shifty, but he refused them all. He favored to sit in his place close to one of the few fires, the warm waves washing over him.

The fire also reflected off of Thorn's scales that shone brilliantly tonight, the spots dancing over the elf's faces as they passed, their smiles widening with the odd reflections. Murtagh heard them whispering that the red dots were like a blessing, and he felt Thorn's chest raise in pride.

It seemed he also missed the total societal number increase, and he wondered if their population was almost the same before they'd marched off to join in the war. While the elves were powerful, it didn't stop them from being killed in battle like the rest of the races.

The modest amount of children ran about, squealing. Murtagh resisted wincing. Opposite to him in this was Thorn, whose eyes followed the youths where ever they ran.

_Watch anymore and the elves will think you will ask to make a sacrifice of the children to you_, Murtagh joked to his dragon, who only gave him a playful face of smoke.

As the hours passed by and Murtagh saw the stars migrate over the sky, he was surprised to see the elves continue to move around the fire, their faces still as energetic as when he'd first landed. Their constant movement made him feel sluggish and a sudden itch seemed to overtake his skin. This need to move transferred to Thorn, who suddenly let out a bellow.

Murtagh felt a proud smirk come onto his face when his dragon opened his mouth and bellowed a roar that had the elves almost loosing their ever-present balance. But they leaped up to regain their footing, and it looked like they were a school of fish from the sea jumping up to avoid a shark or other predator.

Thorn then began to bang the earth with his forearms, making the elves continue to hop. They cheered at the new dance move, and soon Murtagh was following along.

The dark-haired rider told himself that it was just out of necessity so he would not have to fall over like a young child, but soon he was mixing in with the elves. With his height he could look over a large majority of them, and in this way he could keep his eyes on his paw-smacking dragon.

Thorn gave another roar before he was leaping towards Murtagh, and the elves seemed alarmed for a moment as the dragon attempted to squish his rider between his claws.

But Murtagh understood the game and began darting around, spinning and leaping and giving playful jibs at Thorn, which only encouraged the beast more.

Eventually, though, Murtagh decided to land himself in the saddle again, and Thorn reared on his back legs.

_Let's show them something to really celebrate over_, Thorn said to Murtagh before he projected to the elves: _Watch us and marvel!_

And then they took to the air and began twisting and climbing, crushing gravity's grip on them. And in this blood-oath ceremony they did become something to gasp and watch with wide eyes.

* * *

Color theme **001: Red**; Word Count: 775

Posted on the 22nd of January, 2011


	15. Never Broken

**Never Broken**

Murtagh leaned back on the middle-aged tree he'd found to sit under, a ceramic cup in one hand. The fingers on his other, empty hand were on the ground. They thrummed along with the rhythm of the music in a lazy sort of manner as he felt the soft blades of grass move around his fingers. In the glow of moonlight the stalks looked pale and unhealthy to his tanned skin, but he knew in the sunlight the grass was bright and green with life.

His relaxation was broken when three elves came and stood in front of him, their heads already bowed down. Murtagh waited in silence for them to talk, and then they did.

"We are here to offer our services to eradicate the scar on your back. We have done this in the past for your brother, Eragon Kingslayer."

"I know who my half-brother was and is," Murtagh said in slight mortification, offended that they would condescend him in such a way.

He heard Thorn growl, his body paused in his thunderous dance, and the other elves heard it as well.

"We do not mean to offend, Murtagh Namechanger, only to assist."

Murtagh snorted before waving them off with a hand. Thorn had gone back to doing his threatening dancing as the elves scurried to avoid him. But the elves by Murtagh continued standing there, blinking down at him.

So the dark-haired rider finally vocalized, "I do not require your assistance." He spat the last word out like a curse, despite the truth the ancient language only allowed him to say.

That gave them enough motivation to turn away, their long hair flicking along with their heads and hurt egos.

Murtagh went back to finding the beat of the music, thinking that as masochistically as it sounded, he wanted to keep this scar. He wanted to keep it for the memories and the significance it held, to never forget where he came from.

Although he abhored being the child of his Father, there was nothing he could do to change that. So he accepted it, just as he did the white line of a slashing scar across his back.

And he knew it was the same with Thorn, as Murtagh watched his cropped tail lash out into the nearest fire, making sparks fly.

They were damaged but would keep going, because they understood their imperfection made them strong. It has kept them going this long, and it would continue to do so. So he leaned his head back and took a swig of the elf's energy-instilling liquor before he was up moving again, his inhibitions of dancing with the elves gone for the moment.

Now all he allowed was the sensation of his body lifting from the ground as he jumped along in time.

* * *

Color theme **085: Chartreuse**; Word Count: 471

Posted on the 24th of January, 2011


	16. Children of a New Age

**Children of a New Age**

When Murtagh woke, he saw the was white sun and already high. He stood up with a little trouble and a deep grunt, mostly because of a splitting headache which seemed to threaten tearing his entire body apart. His hangover made him lean over his knees for a moment, to orient himself and spit curses. It felt like the drums from last night were still pounding at a vicious rhythm, right behind his eyes.

Once he got most of his senses (including balance) orientated, he looked around and saw that there were a few others similar to him. Murtagh almost laughed at how odd this seemed to him now, as the elves in the war would have never let their guard down, even when they slept in their own homes. Yet here they were, passed out on the grass from the celebration and not caring to wake with the sun. It seemed odd to see them so ungraceful, their limbs limp as their chest rose and fell softly.

A moment later and Murtagh located his dragon. His bulking mass was at the center of the field, where the largest bonfire had been. There was a wisp of smoke from the charred spot, the only testament to the leaping flames as big as Thorn himself. Murtagh looked through the thin film of grey to the lithe figures that were hopping around and over Thorn with grace and interest.

With another grunt, Murtagh fully straightened his back with a few satisfying cracks before walking over. He got to the small grouping fairly quick, even if he wasn't as sure footed as usual.

"Time to go," Murtagh stated, so the elven children would hear him as well.

As one, the children's too beautiful faces moved away from Thorn and his flashing scales to Murtagh's face. There were quite a few sets of eyes, but one was most unusual to Murtagh. One of the girls had deep purple eyes, that of a ripe eggplant like the ones in Murtagh's garden. It was an eye color that would never be found in any other specie's child. It was just another aspect for the elves to boast about, of course.

Murtagh almost felt uncomfortable with their blank stares, unashamed in their youth. But then he remembered how he was a Rider and these children did not have any right to look at him like some interesting creature on display or for dissection. And anyway, he had to go fly to his home and sleep this splitting headache away. He wasn't going to sit here and babysit these children to make sure they did not accidentally impale themselves on one of Thorn's spine spikes (or something of the like).

"Get off of him," Murtagh said when the children remained stone still. He doubted they were even blinking.

When Thorn gave a whine of protest, Murtagh rolled his eyes.

_Can we not stay a little longer?_ Thorn projected to only his rider.

_I cannot believe you are encouraging this_, Murtagh answered.

_Children are not so bad_, Thorn said as he gave a huff of warm air into a boy's face. This made the youth finally turn away from Murtagh and give a mute smile in return.

Soon the other children looked away as well, maybe realizing that the partners were having a private conversation.

Murtagh had a good mind to chastise Thorn for being treated like some thing to be worshiped (it would go to his already humongous head) but then he saw through his dulled senses how happy Thorn seemed. He was energetic, as his tail flicked from side to side, a few of the children attempting (and failing) to hold it down to the ground.

Feeling vulnerable to how energetic his dragon was finally feeling, Murtagh gave a sigh of annoyance. Of course Thorn would pick children to entertain; they were as silly as him.

Yet this still did not change Murtagh's migraine and how he just wanted to get back to his large, feather-cushioned bed.

"We'll come back soon, alright?" Murtagh said in a low voice, once again vocalizing his plans so the children could hear. "But we're going home _now_."

Thorn immediately gave a bark of happiness and the children slowly slid off, leaving the powerful beast with obvious reluctance. A few came up to his face and patted his muzzle before bounding off into the forest, no doubt to return home to their parents and beds. Murtagh thought of how children being left to their own means also would never have happen in the war time.

_They were happy to hear you agree to come back,_ Thorn said as Murtagh climbed up into the saddle.

_Excited for you,_ _Thorn. Do not tie me in_, Murtagh corrected.

_They do respect you_, Thorn answered calmly as he unfurled his wings to fly. _You just do not want to acknowledge them. That is what they are are annoyed with._

Thorn then beat his wings and they skyrocketed into the sky. Murtagh felt his stomach drop to his toes before bounding up to his mouth. He clamped a hand over his lips to stop anything from passing out and soon enough the nausea wore off. He focused on the calming sensation of the wind over his face and through his hair.

_They are children_, Murtagh said after he could stop focusing on his twisting stomach.

_Elven children._

Murtagh winced before he said, _Where did all those kids come from anyway? Sure, their birthrate went up from nonexistant, but there was still at least half a dozen clambering over you._

_Well,_ Thorn began in a calming, patient tone, _When an elf loves another elf very much-_

_Oh, shut it you oversized pile of scales_.

Still, the rider couldn't stop a half chuckle from escaping. Thorn, similarly, gave a great snort of smoke.

* * *

Color theme** 078: Eggplant**; Word Count: 975

Posted on the 26th of January, 2011


	17. Singing His Song

**Singing His Song**

Murtagh noticed a small bird in front of him. Its wings flitted and its bright feathers spread and shone in the sunlight as it seemed to effortlessly ride the air.

Nearby, Murtagh saw that Thorn was doing his ritualistic walk around the plane of their little home. His heavy, clawed paws were delicate when he walked around, careful of the yellow flowers that sprouted around between the blades of grass. Murtagh knew what he was doing; he was searching for the red flowers that still popped up on rare occasion.

When they had first settled, there had been an equal mix of the yellow and red poppy-like flowers. Now there were only yellow ones, with a few dulled orange ones caused by cross-pollination. That cross-pollination must have happened a while back, because Murtagh had forgotten the last time he'd seen a red flower around here. Thorn was dangerously meticulous in his destruction of the innocent poppies.

_You get annoyed at the flowers because they intimiate your color, right?_ Murtagh asked to his busy dragon.

_Yes, _Thorn answered simply, so focused on his task.

Murtagh cast his eyes back to the bird that had landed on an edge of his patched roof. It gave a clipped note of song.

_Then why do you not get annoyed with birds? They fly like you, but they obviously are not as grand. You could easily see them as a pale imitation of yourself._

Thorn craned his spiked head up from the grass and gave a soft, but still meaningful, huff_._

_Why do elves allow humans to walk around with such a similar image? It is pity._

_So you pity a bird but not a flower. You know, both are things others would classify as beautiful._ Murtagh looked back over to Thorn, a lazy smirk on his face. _You are something I will never understand. And we share minds._

_Well, I believe I will never fully grasp your need to understand things_, Thorn said with a snap of his fangs right back. He turned back to the grass and swaying yellow flowers, but did not stop talking. _You humans are always demanding in the facts, in what is wrong or right. Your race needs to learn to accept things, like you need to just accept I dislike red flowers._

Murtagh watched as Thorn continued to rumble around for a little more. He thought, again, of how odd Thorn delicately cared for the yellow flowers but had crushed the red out of existence. All based solely on pigment, on something the flowers themselves couldn't control. Maybe if Murtagh did not understand how fate just worked like that, he would have felt sad.

Murtagh turned back to the bird, and saw it was nibbling on one of the sunflowers in his garden. He watched its deft beak pick out the nutritious insides of the black and white seeds.

_What do you feel about red birds?_ Murtagh asked.

Thorn answered with a roar of annoyance.

* * *

Color theme **075: Canary**; Word Count: 500

Posted on the 28th of January, 2011


	18. Undivided Attention

**Undivided Attention**

Murtagh woke with a gasp, a hand pressed to his chest a moment later. His fingers could not grasp his skin, for it was slick with sweat.

He took in the cool, night air in heaping breaths before looking around at the black expanse of his home. Everything seemed in order from what he could see in the dark; he sensed no physical danger. He felt the usual throb of Zar'roc demanding to be used (as Murtagh had been ignoring its evil in this leisurely life) and its glistening ruby. Also like usual, Murtagh continued to ignore it. And anyway, there was something far more pressing at the moment; something he couldn't identify.

_This unknown pull is getting stronger_, Thorn stated suddenly from his place outside.

_I agree._

These last few nights, Murtagh and Thorn had woken up at untimely hours. What was similar with the seemingly random timed events was the odd sensation it brought in their chests. It was a pull and a surge all at once. To Murtagh it felt like his ribs were trying to crack open and free his beating heart for the world to marvel at. Thorn said it had more to do with the fire in his stomach than his heart. A few nights ago he had woken up with his jaw unhinged and letting out a jet of fire. Now there was a long, clear line of singed grass on the field.

_This has got to end_, Murtagh said with a growl as he got up and out of bed.

_We should consult the elves,_ Thorn said as his head swiveled to the door of the cottage. One visible, crimson eye lazily blinked, slow with the remainder of sleep.

Murtagh couldn't help from letting out a light snort before stating, _Knowing them, it's all their doing. They probably slipped something in our drink during their Blood-Oath Ceremony._

Thorn didn't argue or agree with him, but did give a contemplative snort from his long snout.

_Regardless, I am confident they will have some aspect of an answer,_ the dragon finally stated.

Murtagh had walked the short expanse of the cabin over to Thorn. He lifted one arm to run through his own disheveled hair while his other hand went out to stroke the small scales just below his eye. Soon the red beast was beginning to do a low, growling sound of pleasure from the comforting petting. When Murtagh took his hand away, Thorn gave a whine of protest, but his rider only rolled his eyes and resisted to give in.

_Tomorrow we will travel to the Queen,_ Thorn decided with a puff of hot smoke to Murtagh's face.

Before Murtagh could give a real answer (although he really couldn't disagree with a dragon), as he was coughing on the dissipating smoke, Thorn lumbered back to his spot in the stream.

Giving a huff of his own, the rider stalked back to his bed. As he pulled the covers back in order, he heard a loud thud and splash as Thorn went back down into his self-made dip in the river. Murtagh arranged himself back into his own resting spot. He heard a few more splashes from Thorn as he moved, too, for optimal comfort.

_Goodnight, Murtagh_, Thorn grumbled to him before he put his head down on the sandy bank.

Murtagh gave a deep hum in answer as he closed his eyes. And despite the mystery that nagged at his head and chest, he fell asleep moments later.

.

The next day they traveled to the thicket of the trees where the elven resided around their monarch in huddles of specialized tree-houses. Both the rider and dragon noticed that all-too familiar pull in their chests became stronger as Thorn beat his wings, propelling them faster and ever closer to whatever was calling them.

They landed with a rumbling shake at the base of the Queen's tree. When she came out to greet them with her guards, her face was solemn, but somehow seemed to hold down excitement. Thorn sniffed and reaffirmed to Murtagh that she was hiding something. She had a new scent on her that even he couldn't place.

This fact made Murtagh a little apprehensive. He almost smirked at the feeling he hadn't felt in years - in decades. Yes, he decided as he dismounted Thorn, his life had been far too mundane.

When they entered the wooden structure of the tree, the Queen ordered her guards to stand post. It left Murtagh alone with the ever-beautiful monarch, with Thorn's peering eye in a window nearby. His heavy body was perched on the roof, and Murtagh briefly wondered if it would cave in from his heavy weight. No doubt spells were holding it up, but how long could they last against his impressive dragon?

"I am surprised you have come without being called," Islanzadí said as she circled around a table in the middle of the worn floor-boards.

Murtagh nodded to her words, but his eyes suddenly became fixed on what was on the small, round table. It didn't seem like much exactly, just a cloth over what appeared to be rounded objects, but it still made his heart rate suddenly leap like it hadn't in years. This was far more prevalent than the resurfaced emotion of anxiety. Now he was feeling emotions he wasn't sure he'd ever felt.

_We were forcefully pulled here. Now I see the reason why_, Thorn said in his deep voice as his eyes landed on the table as well.

Murtagh knew what gave off this presence even though he hadn't been in the area of one for hundreds of years.

Islanzadí seemed to understand Murtagh already knew what was beneath the soft cotton cloth, so she decided she might as well reveal the treasures. She gave a light sigh and flicked her eyes from Thorn and back to Murtagh before pulling the fabric aside. The action revealed three smooth, priceless stone-looking articles that Murtagh knew were dragon eggs.

Murtagh felt Thorn's huge heart leap in his chest.

"A scout picked these up from a beach on the coast not a day ago. They were brought to me scarcely moments before your arrival," the elven Queen said as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes remained on the glittering eggs before her, not on Murtagh's shocked-still expression.

Murtagh let go of a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Even though he felt foolish, he couldn't help but stutter out, "How- what- I do not-"

But it seemed that his dragon was, for once, the mature one as Thorn stated for both his human and the elf ruler to hear,_ They must have come from Saphira and the Green One._

Murtagh looked towards Thorn, for he said his statement with such gentleness Murtagh did not think he was capable of having. Especially with the realization that his first and last, or at least so far (as these eggs gave a new twist on even something like this), fleeting love had truly found happiness with the other dragon and not him.

Thorn heard Murtagh's thoughts and cast him a gaze before he lethargically closed his eye for a moment, silently telling him through the simple action that he had accepted this years ago. Murtagh wondered briefly when his dragon had grown up.

"Why would Eragon send these back to us?" Murtagh asked roughly; "I thought he left to get rid of his powerful influence and heal himself. And would Saphira not want to raise her own offspring?"

Thorn hummed along in agreement at the various points, and Islanzadí gave a curt nod to show she acknowledged him as well. But then there was just silence between the three, no attempts to answer the questions that burned in the back of Murtagh's mind. Only the hushing sound of the wind rustling the dark leaves and pines around them trickled in from outside.

In the lapsed silence, Thorn adjusted his head so that he could stick the end of his snout into the room. His tongue flicked out around the eggs, tasting the air.

_They have come a long way_, he said as he rearranged his head again to look into the room, _But they are still whole. Still alive and well._

"I do not understand your half-brother," the Queen snapped in sudden anger, and Murtagh blinked in shock.

Even to this day, Islanzadí was a character Murtagh hadn't fully cracked. She was beautiful (it was as plane as the grass was green in the spring) but she held a bite to her like a ferocious animal. She was graceful in the way a panther stalked its prey, it's dark coat allowing discretion before it went for the jugular. Maybe it was the constant years of having control that had given her this sharp edge, and Murtagh wondered if he would develop to be bitter and not control his inner turmoil like her. So far these years had done nothing but make him passive, almost uncaring to the world around him. He had grown complacent in this forest, and he wondered if these eggs were a sudden reason for his lifestyle to become something else. It, truly, was a reason as good as any. And it was just like Eragon to turn his entire life around in a way Murtagh disregarded as possible, much less probable.

While the elven Queen continued sliently seething in this new responsibility she seemed to have never anticipated, Murtagh let his eyes drift down to the three eggs once again.

He did not know much about dragons, but he supposed that the fact how they laid eggs in clutches made sense now. He had read in various texts that the number of eggs laid by a female at one time could be from one to five, and that an egg hatched when it wanted to and not a moment before. It made the sibling dynamic a little more mute than in humans or other species, as a dragon could grow old without even first seeing a liter mate.

The colors of the eggs usually reflected the parents or a mix of their colors, and that seemed true here as well. One was an almost translucent sea-foam, more white then green, and was the lightest of the three. The one aside of it was a midnight blue, almost to the point of it being mistaken as black in scarce lighting, with sky blue veins. The last one was a dark turquoise, where it came off as a more dark green than a dark blue strain of the color, with dark blue veins that matched the second egg.

They were all very beautiful in an eerie sort of way. It made the air stand on end and Murtagh had to resist the urge to pull the cloth back over them. Like Islanzadí, he did not know what to do with these eggs. Should they remain in secret, stored away until another imperious day came and a hero of power was needed? Or should the elves celebrate these new additions to their force, reveal them and ask children to come up and try their hands at fortune?

Murtagh felt there had to be some large, president reason for Eragon to send his dragon's offspring here. Maybe they were too busy to be tied down with raising a new rider and dragon, or maybe he just had no desire to be responsible for anything at all anymore. That thought left a bitter taste in Murtagh's mouth, as he had never viewed Eragon to be such a coward.

"Eragon may believe we can give these dragons a true home here," the Queen finally spoke, making Murtagh blink up, broken out of his wandering thoughts.

Murtagh finally noted that one of the elf's delicate-fingered hands were splayed over an egg. It was the dark blue one, and her pale skin seemed weak next to the rich, dark color.

_You think she put her hand on it to see if he or she would hatch for her? _Murtagh couldn't help but ask to Thorn.

The dragon hissed back playfully, but then he stopped and turned his eye back to the table. Murtagh could tell that the feeling of not being truly alone was puzzling Thorn, along with a myriad of other emotions and thoughts that was confusing Murtagh just as much now. The two of them, the last rider and dragon of the land, had been alone together for so long. To know that there now would be others was disarming, to say the least.

To think that there might now be another rider to fly next to him made Murtagh feel nauseous. He could not tell if it was because of excitement or trepidation; he could not really get his mind straight to decide anything.

"I've decided," Islanzadí said at last, "We will reveal it to our society, and to the leaders outside the forest who may present potential dragon-riders. We will make a tradition of testing each child when they turn of ten years old. If there is a new rider, we will welcome the occurrence with great revelry. "

_We should test the three children of appropriate age_, Thorn declared for both to hear.

Murtagh cast a look at his dragon before rolling his eyes; Thorn was getting much too friendly with the small youth population.

Islanzadí suddenly looked to Murtagh sharply and he wondered why. His only reaction was to stare blankly back.

_She is waiting for you to offer your assistance in this ordeal,_ Thorn said to only his partner.

This caused the dark-haired rider to turn to his dragon like he'd just lied in the ancient language.

_She cannot want me to be involved in this new rider ordeal. The eggs were sent to this land. Not to us._

_Eragon realizes you are part of this people now_, Thorn rebuked. _Us alone were probably one of the main reasons why he felt comfortable in sending them for the elves to find._

_Eragon is a fool to think that I will help raise a new rider,_ Murtagh said with a growl that vibrated out of his rib cage. _I was not even truly trained myself. Despite all the texts and accounts I have now read, what makes him think I am qualified to raise a person to be as powerful, if not more so, than I? He is as ignorantly optimistic as ever._

Thorn sighed in exasperation before stating, like it was the most obvious truth in all the lands, back, _Because your brother trusts you_.

He was silent for a moment before weakly arguing, _Eragon is but my __half_-_brother._

Thorn snorted, and Murtagh finally turned back to Islanzadí. She seemed a little off put, if the slight pout in her lips meant anything, by the lengthy mental conversation he had just had with Thorn. Being Queen, Murtagh no doubt assumed she had the false belief she should be involved in everything in her forest. Because being ignorant to things made an individual weak, and Murtagh knew she wanted to be anything but that.

"You want me to help you," Murtagh said out loud to her.

The elf seemed reluctant at first to nod her head, but it was only for a fleeting moment. Then her eyes were gleaming, and there was a sly smile on her face.

"This is disruptive in almost every aspect," Murtagh said lowly as he approached the eggs for the first time.

Like with Islanzadí, he lifted a hand in intent to splay across of one of the three eggs. But when his hand was finally above one, the turquoise one, he simply let his fingers hover. Then he took the steps back and let his hand drop to his side. He didn't let his fingertips even brush against the cool surface.

"If we are to have a new rider that can be any child from now," Murtagh said as he looked across to Thorn, "I realize I must begin helping the education of such youths. To have one picked as a rider and to have them ignorant before will be inadequate. We cannot allow the next rider to be struck with confusion or anger like Eragon and I had been."

_This time the situation and environment needs to be right,_ Thorn affirmed as well.

"You are prepared to become a Master for the future riders to follow?"

Hearing that there might be more that one he would have to extensively educate, as Islanzadí had used the plural to describe who was to come after him, Murtagh felt his stomach flop over for the innumerable time since he'd walked in. This feeling in the pit of his gut was much worse than the pulling in his chest had been.

_We do not see any other option_, Thorn answered to the Queen; _We may not be as knowledgeable as the Golden Dragon and his Rider from the past, but we will attempt to offer our assistance in a lifestyle almost forgotten to the best of our abilities._

"And we do have tomes and the Eldunarí," Islanzadí reminded. "You will not have to literally teach from yourself alone."

But still, he felt apprehension towards all this. It was truly too sudden, too unbelievable.

_Life is odd like that_, Thorn said as he mellowed Murtagh's flaring emotions.

Murtagh's hands at his sides tightened into fists.

* * *

Color theme **088: Navy**; Word Count: 2,925

Posted on the 5th of February, 2011

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**Ending Note**: Could this finally be plot? dun-dun-_DUN_


	19. Not Good Enough

**Not Good Enough**

Murtagh watched the line of three children. He noted a pair of hands, the boy's (if he was getting any better at judging elf gender), twitching. The other two were girls; one had her hands fisted while the other's relaxed.

They each walked up in turn, and each of their eyes flicked to him in questioning and apprehension. Fingers stretched out and were carefully placed.

When for each of the three children the three eggs didn't hatch, their eyes looked up to him again. Murtage noticed the mixed emotions. The bittersweet feeling of rejection, but relief in unimaginable responsibility forgone.

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Color theme **057: Bittersweet**; Word Count: 100

Posted on the 13th of February, 2011


	20. Beggars Can't Be Choosers

**Beggars Can't Be Choosers**

He looked out at the small clump of children before him and resisted the urge to jump on Thorn and fly away.

Murtagh could remember that humans were vicious creatures when they were younger (even if he couldn't even remember the name of the last human he'd seen). Because when they were younger they were needy. They were dependent on their parents and anyone else older and able to assist. They had large eyes and drooling mouths with faces that quickly became like their fathers - so the male wouldn't disbelieve it wasn't his own offspring. Human children killed anyone (yes, anyone included Murtagh himself) with their cuteness and nativity. Their minds were still as open as their mouths, cramming things in both to taste and understand everything around them.

He wondered, as he stared at the youthful faces staring right back, if elven children were similar.

They seemed as intimiadting, and Murtagh felt foolish with fear. It was like he was going up against another elf army. It seemed irrational, but this one seemed much more menacing in their big eyes and hearts.

Murtagh could not lie about the huge wave of relief that came when none of the eggs had hatched for the three children of age. The tests had only happened a few days ago, but Murtagh could still feel his heart pick up in the worry of having that responsibility so soon. He didn't think he was prepared for something like that - maybe he would never be.

Yet they didn't hatch, and Murtagh knew he could revel in that relief for at least a few years. Then there would be another child of age, another potential rider, and by that time the other children outside of Du Weldenvarden would try their small hands as well.

He knew that he should teach himself the correct way to be a rider first, as he knew he was missing a lifetime of education. When Thorn had hatched for him the dark king didn't care about things being done right; he just needed them done. He didn't care that Murtagh wasn't ready and how he forced Thorn to never be a hatchling. It was why Thorn was yet to grow out of his childishness. That ability to act young and careless was something he'd finally been allowed to have in the peace. Murtagh knew he wasn't about to give it up anytime soon. But, just as Thorn, he didn't have the time to fully become what he should.

Murtagh looked up to his dragon as his head loomed high above. His vibrant eyes were focused on the children before them both. The partners could see, even through the children's apprehension and fear, that there was hope. Murtagh was now not so egotistical to think that he should be such a hopeful figure for the youth of a civilization.

Murtagh heard Queen Islanzadí give her formal address on the subject of the eggs, as well as demand anyone with a child move to this city. Here was Murtagh and here he would teach them as potential riders. The elven children would become educated with the most powerful being left. One who went through The War and had survived.

Thorn had mentioned that it was interesting to see the children from different areas and how they looked different. Murtagh couldn't really tell which ones had been living here and which ones were from other parts of the forest. Thorn slapped him upside the head with his tail for that thought and the dragon had snarled that he was being insensitive. Murtagh just said he was telling the truth, which earned him yet another smack.

But now he couldn't feel any amusement, only trepidation. He could so easily mess up, and if he messed up then the children would be-

_We are not ready for this_, Murtagh said up to Thorn.

_We do not have a choice._

Murtagh found himself annoyed at Eragon for the countless time. How was that idiot still giving him trouble and morality issues when he was an ocean, no, a world away? It would always baffle Murtagh how they were related.

Eragon should be the one teaching these eager faces of a new, peaceful generation. He should be the one who they would hear lecture about nature and the order of things. He and Saphira should be the ones to create wonder as they spiraled through the sky with poise and grace. Eragon's wide grin would stretch with Saphira's wings, and they would climb. His brown tresses would flow with the wind and he would yell out a greeting-

Murtagh took a moment to breathe and steady himself again.

He and Thorn had never fully accomplished the grace the other human-dragon partnership had. They were always too brash, too overwhelming with their power.

Thorn nudged him from behind with a massive forearm, jerking Murtagh out of his thoughts and telling him to get on with it. They had been standing in front of the young, patiently waiting audience for quite some time.

Murtagh cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Good day, elf offspring," he began in the ancient language. He truly wanted to hit himself for the awkward choice of words. "You know me as Murtagh Namechanger and I am going to be one of your Educational Instructors from now on."

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Murtagh learned that elven children really weren't that different from human children. Their fundamental make-up was the same, and that was something Murtagh could understand and relate. And it would have been great if it was like that for everything else. But the differences easily outweighed the similarities. And it were those differences that had Murtagh fumbling, something no person as old as he should do.

Their eyes seemed to peer through him, to his soul. Their questions seemed to pierce through his own words, to his intelligence that he knew they doubted after the first few days of his unease. They were more ruthless than the adults. By the time they grew up, they learned control. But when they were young they were still rough and unpolished.

They didn't give him any slack, despite the fact that he had to make up the curriculum as he went. True, he consulted with the Eldunarí and the other elven educators, but he was the one who made the final decisions. He was the one who the whole of the responsibility went to.

Yet they were amusing to Murtagh, and that surprised him above all.

He was shocked at how simple minded they were when given a task; they always put their entire ability into things. It could be simple like holding a mushroom without bruising it, or hard like finding the courage to stand up and argue philosophy with Thorn. They were smart, that was a given, but they used it in interesting ways. They always questioned aspects of lessons and information, but never Murtagh himself. It seemed that the stealthy, sleek way of dealing with others developed early for them.

Murtagh found it amusing when their brains became overpowered by their stubborn tendencies. Their stubborn streaks to succeed and do right was something that connected them all and made them a little indestinguishable for Murtagh. With adults there was always some quirk, something unique that made them who they were. Right now the children were trying to find that out. They would eventually, Murtagh knew, unless their stubbornness got in the way of that, too.

The children had potential, Murtagh realized above all else. He was also thankful for this above all else.

He could tell them information or an order and they wouldn't forget. He could teach something once and, if he did it with enough detail and explanation, he wouldn't have to repeat himself. This allowed him to feel barely any frustration. He never had to teach something over and over until they got it. They just did, and he could move on to a new thing without a worry. (This was a little double-edged as he was only in the first week of lessons and already he was running out of ideas.)

Sometimes their perfection got on Murtagh's nerves.

Many could speak in the ancient language easily and had many abilities, despite their young ages. It was a little deceptive to Murtagh, how they grew up faster than humans in the physical and mental capability sense, but not the personality sense. They were more beautiful than the adults of their race, but much more lacking in the common sense areas.

For Murtagh he had to remind himself that they were kids and he couldn't yell or swear at them. He also couldn't get envious of them, despite how easily everything came for them. Yes, they were just kids with inane natural strength and ability that he had to gain from magic (it was like they already had spells woven into their bones and brains for ability before they were born). They were just kids with glowing faces and straight teeth who he had to teach.

But Thorn was there with him, and for that Murtagh knew he would always be alright.

It was a little funny to Murtagh, how they were afraid of a human but friendly with a dragon (again, their common senses were yet to fully develop). It was entirely fine with Murtagh though; he didn't want them climbing over him like they did with Thorn. And he knew his dragon was the most lovable creature in this world despite his bulking, blood red image.

And he knew that if Thorn was there, always by his side, Murtagh could do anything.

They had won against the world together, so what was a handful of children?

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Color theme** 096: Writer's Choice, Antique Brass**; Word Count: 1,623

Posted on the 14th of February, 2011 (Happy Valentines Day!)


	21. Flitting Through Life

**Flitting Through Life**

The elven children were communally beautiful, and sometimes that made it hard for Murtagh to differentiate between them. They all had glittering eyes of various colors, unlike humans in their limitation to a select few. Their hair was either bright silver or shiny black and was pin straight, always long and flowing.

Murtagh remembered when he had been a youth still. His hair had been short and unruly while his own body was lanky, just skin and bone waiting for muscle. He remembered his father being looming and tall, dark hair and even darker eyes staring down at Murtagh in what could only be described as annoyance. Or maybe it was just pure anger and blame. That would be enough reason for why he'd sliced him open from shoulder to hip with his sword that now hung in Murtagh's cabin without a use.

Human children were cute at best and then got beautiful or handsome (in the lucky cases) before becoming weathered with age. Elves were peculiar to Murtagh in how they were born so utterly bright. And then they would shoot up in body and mind, their ethereal fairness only slightly diminishing. These elven had both grace and intelligence. It really was no wonder why they were talked about throughout the races even if they hid away in their forest.

"Rider, Rider!"

Murtagh sighed and turned to the child who was addressing him, and stared for a few moments as the boy's name eluded him. But it mattered little as the elf asked a question Murtagh easily answered before bounding back towards his peers.

_His name is Draumrrïs,_ Thorn told him from behind with a rumble.

Murtagh snorted and leaned back on his dragon's flank, enjoying the way the sun was playing on his forearms and the soft whispers of the children all around, some singing.

They were doing an outdoor exercise where they were told to call something of worth out from hiding. Murtagh was secretive in what they were calling, only giving a short riddle. This forced them to be inventive with which ancient language words to use to spell the thing out. Some of the children were still sitting under the large pines, muttering strings of words. Others, like Draumrrïs, had grown impatient with that method and had resolved to physically search for it.

And the teacher, or 'Rider' as they had grown to address him as, was sitting in a pocket of sunshine secretly enjoying their bafflement.

Or, that was, until a little girl came and held up a butterfly of orange and gold that fluttered lightly, but not enough to propel it off the little palm it had settled on.

Thorn arched his head over Murtagh's shoulder and gave a gleaming smile full of fangs. The girl did not smile back though, as she did not see the dragon's grin; she was too focused on Murtagh and his empty expression.

"Why do you bring me a butterfly?" he asked as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Her blank face that failed to hold her excitement down faltered.

By now the other seven children took account for how the eighth was standing in front of their teacher with her hand outstretched with the item they were still dearly searching for. They soon leaped over to her side, their noses sniffing and eyes blinking at the simple insect that sat in her open grasp.

"_I absently take and bring life from crowns of gold,_  
_A tireless traveler of many changing colors but not tales_."

Her voice was too soft for Murtagh's taste and her eyes had wavered from his own down to her bare feet.

"So you have recited my riddle, but how have you solved it?" Murtagh asked as he sat up with a soft grunt.

The action caused her to take a few stumbling steps back, the others easily getting out of the way as Murtagh stared her down. He was trying not to make his face menacing and simply passive, but the girl looked absolutely terrified none-the-less. This made Murtagh wonder a bit, as most of the children feared him in an indifferent way; he outright startled this one.

"A butterfly carries pollen from flowers, and usually pollen are in rings on top of flowers, so they could be interpreted as crowns in that regard. And the golden pollen fetilizes and brings new life through the flowers. Butterfly wings change color in the sun or depending on the species, but their lives and stories do not change because they all fundamentally have the same daily routine of flying around collecting nectar for sustenance before they die from a short lifespan," she explained in length.

Murtagh blinked at the lengthy explanation, but couldn't stop the small smirk of satisfaction from forming.

_It seems, little one, that you have beat this old partnership with ease_, Thorn said with a grumbling laugh from behind. Murtagh couldn't help but roll his eyes and elbow him in ribs. It probably felt like a mosquito bite, but it made Murtagh feel better.

"Quick thinking," Murtagh offered gruffly as he turned to the other children. "I would have also accepted a bee. Now, why did the rest of you not solve it?"

While the others sat around him with and explained their own thought processes and how they thought he had meant a jester or even sickness, Murtagh saw the girl who had solved the riddle sit down with her butterfly. He could tell she listened to the others by the twitches in her ears, but her eyes stayed on the small, winged bug before her. It looked like she was going to stroke its glistening wings a few times, but then her fingers would come back. Finally she gave a fleeting smile before letting the butterfly go with a few whispered words of magic.

As she lifted her face to watch it flutter away in the sun, Murtagh noted that her eyes were a deep red that almost swallowed up the black of her pupils. It was a color of rusted metal or dried blood.

Even for a young elf she did not seem as beautiful as the others, too. True, she easily outshone any human offspring, but considering she was an elf and not human this did not account for much. In addition, her hair was too color-lacking. There was variation in the silver hair in the elven unlike the ink black, but hers was too pale to be rightly called silver. It was more of a white, especially in this bright sunlight.

As Murtagh nodded to the students as they left the field, he looked up to Thorn and asked, _Who was she?_

_The girl who called the butterfly with care? _Thorn asked back.

_You heard her summon it?_ Murtagh asked as they began walking back to their cabin.

_While you were busy basking in the sun like those lethargic werecats, yes, I listened to them all, _Thorn said with a condescending flick of his head that Murtagh ignored; _And she called it earlier before she presented it to you._

_She was doubtful of herself?_ Murtagh asked with interest. Usually these children were headstrong when they got even the briefest of an idea or opinion.

Thorn gave a deep hum in affirmation.

The partners walked on without any more conversation. Thorn's rumbling steps shook numerous pine needles off as his large bulk ducked under branches. Whenever he was in pockets of sun from holes in the canopy above his scales would shine red spots everywhere.

_You are yet to tell me her name,_ Murtagh noted as they arrived at the cabin.

_If I am not mistaken, her name is Abrhvitr, _Thorn said after a few long moments of thought.

_You are not sure?_ Murtagh asked with a soft snort of entertainment. Thorn always prided himself in knowing all the children. Of knowing their names had been the first thing he had latched on to.

_She is not from here and she is too young to immediately try her hand at the eggs, _Thorn said with a huff;_ She came from a small town very deep in the forest._

Murtagh nodded in thanks.

.

Murtagh could see how Thorn had not given much attention to her, as he had given her none at all. (What a great teacher he was turning out to be.)

Abrhvitr, as Murtagh had confirmed, never spoke. She also rarely made eye-contact with anyone, something the other Educational Instructors shook their heads down at. This girl was too shy for her own good, and they were convinced she would soon curl in on herself so much she would become nothing. She would be like the snake who ate himself from hunger in her solitary lifestyle.

But Murtagh saw that she was not incapable of being social, she just did not go out of her way. She was conservative and listened attentively with her head slightly bowed, respectful but not demanding. Murtagh could see that she enjoyed being silent and left alone to listen to what others had to say, keeping her own thoughts neatly filed in her own mind.

While he found it a little annoying, as there were only seven others, Mutagh let her be. He would let her learn her own way.

And while he did remember her name, he soon forgot about her again. But the girl continued absorbing everything like dry cotton. She continued to keep her pointed ears up and attentive as the hours and days passed in class.

Thorn noted that she was the only one who was yet to climb up on him and slide down his tail that he would flick at the last second, propelling the children up high before catching them in the net of his wide wings. Murtagh looked at him like he was crazy for thinking her not wanting to do that was crazy; he certainly did not want to be flung either.

Because of all this, Murtagh was surprised when he looked across his clearing with a tickling at the back of his neck, alerting him of someone else's presence, and saw her. Her hair was tied down in twin braids and they billowed lightly in the summer air that usually suffocated.

She was standing down the small stream, on a large smooth boulder that had bright green moss growing on the edges. Her hands were limp at her sides, but Thorn noted with his keen eyesight that her fingers were twitching the slightest bit.

But to Murtagh she seemed calm, collective for suddenly appearing at his domain without a word in advance. Her face was plain, no creases near her eyes from nerves.

Murtagh reasoned that she was his student and they could be oblivious and thick-skinned when it came to such things. He stood with a huff then, putting aside his fishing rod. When his eyes sought for her short form again, he found she was already gone. He focused and muttered a few strings of magic for his ears and he heard the soft rustling of needles and grass under fast moving feet; she had run away.

Murtagh turned to Thorn in his riverbed with a raised eyebrow and half-chuckle of confusion.

_And I thought those kids could not get any more odd_, Murtagh said.

Thorn moved his attention to Murtagh and gave a careless grunt before he turned back to where the girl had been, the nostrils on his long mussel flaring.

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Color theme **087: Goldenrod**; Word Count: 1,923

Posted on the 18th of February, 2011

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On the elven names I made:

**Abrhvitr** translates to 'of white' in the ancient language. This is in relation to her extremely pale silver hair, but also for her personality of simplicity. Mostly, her character refers to the aspects/values that the color white represents or relates to.

**Draumrrïs** is mix of the ancient language words dream (_draumr_) and rise (_rïsa_); I want the meaning to be like 'dream rising,' because a child is a huge gift and dream of many, especially to an elf community with few births. Also it sounded a little funny to give such a girly name to a male (haha).

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**Ending Note**: Would you look at that. The OC has finally been introduced - hoorah! But the romance is still leagues away, lol.


	22. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Down the Rabbit Hole**

This child came and went on his property, but she never faced him. Murtagh saw her white hair through the dark trunks of the pines when she ran away from his gaze, when he woke in mornings to realize he and Thorn were not alone.

If a small elven girl had been creeping around on his property when he had first arrived, Murtagh would have been deeply disturbed, secretly terrified for what she was doing and why.

But now Murtagh was a teacher who had spent too many years here and got careless in who or what passed through his small home. Maybe he picked up this passive way from the elves, as he had even stopped cutting down trees when he felt claustrophobic. That feeling of the trees overgrowing into his space had stopped as well, as if the old trees heard his pleas for them to stay where they were and allow him this small, open space for him and his large dragon.

The girl never came up to Murtagh when she was in his vicinity, both inside and out of the lessons he taught her and the rest. Then she simply sat in the circle and stayed silent, her long hair sliding over her slouched shoulders as her dark eyes stayed focused on her crossed fingers in her lap. Murtagh studied here in lessons, to try and discover why she came in and out of his property without a word and only fleeting glances, but he saw nothing.

But Murtagh already knew that with elves nothing was simple.

Thorn just accepted her presence; it didn't bother him at all in the least. Murtagh supposed he saw her as nothing but another animal, another doe leaping through the woods. Another creature fascinated with a partnership no longer ignored and hidden. Or it could be Thorn's odd fascination with the youths and he was hiding his true adoration so she wouldn't feel trapped in his large red eyes.

Just as she had captured Murtagh's attention with a simple butterfly to solve a simple riddle, she was catching his attention with her odd antics. Never had Murtagh wanted someone to talk, to explain their actions. What was the point of her coming and hiding behind boulders in the river bed at odd hours of the day?

Did she not know how easily he could see her?

Maybe she didn't and it was Murtagh over analyzing yet another thing. Maybe she thought she was being stealthy and sneaky, hiding under a Rider's nose while she tried to get his secrets or see if he acted differently when he wasn't teaching. But she did not seem the type to snoop for personal gain. She was much too reserved; he supposed this could be her way to try and get his attention or help.

Yet whenever he asked if she had a question in class she had none. She just looked away, her face turned downward as her peers gave confused looks similar to Murtagh's. She was being much too bashful for an elf; for a revered race of grace and beauty she was acting lowly and much too modest for normal. She still wasn't considered a failure or inadequate as she was allowed to remain in the classes with the rest. She learned the material with the rest and passed every test with them.

Murtagh was one of the teachers who understood there was nothing truly wrong with her. She was just waiting to open, just waiting for her spring. And it seemed that snow was beginning to thaw as one day her hand rose.

Thorn perked his head up and looked over with Murtagh, who only blinked in shock before giving her permission to speak.

Her voice was again too soft, not husky or saccharine like the maturing elven in their little group of eight. She was one of the younger ones despite her ability to figure out puzzles, her body still small. It showed on her face, too, even though her reddish eyes made her seem wiser.

Her question was not reveling but interesting enough and Murtagh asked what the others thought of the point she brought up. The boys were a little shocked as Murtagh for her finally talk, even though it was known she was not mute. She did talk to the other girls with hushed whispers on flowers and young animals they came across in the forest or greeted them in the morning with shy smiles and brief waves.

Suddenly she was speaking up in class, her voice gained volume and confidence. Murtagh watched in interest inside and outside the educational setting as she got bolder.

Just the other morning he had turned up from sharpening arrows to see her sitting in the field, stringing together yellow flowers with a soft hum. When Thorn had joined in with a deep rumbling voice from the river bank she had bolted and Murtagh had laughed at the downtrodden face Thorn had made in result.

She was like those young snow rabbits in the winter who hid in the white. They could be skittish around anyone but they had the common sense to simply stay still and the predator would grace over. They hid in plain sight.

But the weather was warming and soon that fur would be turning brown and the ability to camouflage wouldn't be so realistic. But she did not seem to care, as her periods of being in his vicinity increased. In the beginning she only stayed for fleeting seconds. Now her eyes trailed him for minutes before disappearing back into the forest.

Murtagh knew, as his eyes glanced up to her small form high on a pine branch on the edge of his small field, that she would have to stop only watching eventually. She would have to come out of hiding and sedate this odd fascination she had with him. Until she did, he could wait. It was not like Murtagh was going anywhere.

* * *

Color theme **046: Pine**; Word Count: 1,000

Posted on the 22nd of February, 2011


	23. She Smiled With White Teeth

**She Smiled With White Teeth**

One day Murtagh thought to simply ask one of the fellow Educational Instructors about Abrhvitr.

Murtagh decided to ask the archer instructor because she seemed kind. Also Thorn had hinted that she had a infatuation with him, meaning she would easily answer anything he asked. And it didn't hurt in the least that she had been a teacher here for a while, meaning that she would know all about these children. While before it had only been six children in their large village, there was now two more, and Murtagh knew there must be information about those two (one being Abrhvitr, if Thorn was correct) for them to be even considered being taught as a Rider.

While Murtagh had never been any good with small talk, a cocky smile could do wonders (even if Thorn was holding down his roars of amusement for his partner seducing someone). But she did smile back and she did talk.

"Her there," she said with a flick of her hair to Abrhvitr who was holding a bow almost her entire small height. "She's originally from the deep woods, where culture is thick as the tree trunks and snow in the winter."

Murtagh resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the continued use of metaphors.

"If I recall correctly, her mother specializes in gardening, herbs in particular. Her Father is a jeweler, a man of fine skills with metal and jewels he has not kept hidden since they have moved here."

Murtagh stayed silent before asking for more. He knew that elves usually were not chatty, but this was something if he was to get rid of three feet of annoyance.

She began talking again: "I hope that sapling finds her way. Leaping in the woods late at night with mud on her bare feet and needles in her hair that is too pale. She is far too shy and sheltered; more like a guilty conscious than an elf."

Murtagh gave a slight cough at the odd observations.

"Yet she was born in winter."

"Is it rare for elves to be born in winter?" Murtagh asked quickly.

She turned to him then, her polished bow of brown and ivory glistening at her side. "Quite rare indeed, Rider."

_The other day one of the boys was bragging of how he was born in fall,_ Thorn projected to both with a growl of contemplation.

"Yet fall subsides to winter, as everything in nature. Even the might rivers cannot help but be held in time from the cold," the archer breezily replied.

Murtagh snorted as he looked over to the small child. Because that little girl, whose arms looked as thick as his wrist and who was struggling to knot an arrow, did not look like she had the power even to govern herself.

Abrhvitr looked up then, as if sensing his gaze, and Murtagh again saw the deep muddle of red and brown in her eyes before they turned back to her task at hand.

.

"What is your name, young one?"

It was a stupid question in context, really. Abrhvitr had been his student for a good four months and she was regularly talking in class now, the other children going quiet when she spoke so they could hear her quiet, insightful points. She was good at figuring things out, and they liked that whenever they were in discussion. Abrhvitr could bring up a point and the rest were off to break it apart.

Murtagh could see her crouched form out of the corner behind a boulder she used regularly. He saw her stiffen from behind the gray surface at his voice. He didn't turn to her, because he knew that would scare her off, if his words already hadn't.

She came out from hiding and leaped a few stones up the flowing riverbed. The rider himself stayed still. He stayed on the sandy bank with a fishing pole in hand and Thorn's huge head on his side. Like Murtagh, Thorn resisted the urge to look or even reach out so she could hear a greeting from him.

It was a sunny day and her bright hair contrasted with the earthen tones of the forest and gurgling river as she straightened from her leaps.

He had seen her watching him for quite some time today, and for this he had decided to actually speak. Murtagh thought he could be patient with any creature (even an elf), but he was getting annoyed. Abrhvitr was being lofty, too detached for someone he saw on a scheduled basis.

Abrhvitr took another leap, closer still.

Murtagh knew asking her name was pointless. He already knew it, he had already heard it too many times to count. He had heard her say it, too, as she had introduced herself to the others when she had begun talking with ease.

When she crouched over a rock to look at the deep pool Thorn had dented with his own body, Murtagh slid his dark eyes over.

She was barefoot like usual, and her light hair was a mess to be seen. He could see mud and needles poking out from it just as the archer had noted on. She balanced on the back of her heels, her elbows sticking out awkwardly as she kept her little hands on her knees. But he could also see curiousity and interest when she looked back up and right into his eyes.

He expected something from her, but nothing came. She just stared blankly back. Murtagh was reminded again of how she was just a simple, oblivious child.

The real interest came as she gave him a shy smile that only lasted for a fleeting moment. Then she hopped downstream, arms outstretched, and left the two without answering Murtagh's question.

_Children are so frustrating,_ Murtagh said to Thorn, narrowing his eyes as Abrhvitr disappeared from view.

_She does not know any better, _Thorn said with a rumbling laugh.

Murtagh scoffed and turned back to the water.

.

When Abrhvitr came back the next day and said she wanted to be friends, Murtagh thought he had drifted off into another world. That, or she had the wrong secluded cabin with a giant dragon and easily aggravated human.

He resolved to blink and state, "Repeat what you just said."

"I want to be friends."

Murtagh had always expected something, from the first day he'd seen her from his cabin, but he hadn't expected this. Maybe a question on how he did not look much older than a teenager or why Thorn was so large, but not to be on good terms with him. Never that; he could not recall a similar request except from Eragon and Saphira.

He had taken her as a smart one, but suddenly she seemed childish in her too-large tunic and dirt-smudged face.

"Do you know how old I am, child?" he asked to get a hold on the situation.

Abrhvitr was standing at his doorway and he crouched down so he was eye-level with her. He found in interest that her eyes were brighter; the red overtook the brown today. He also watched as she took a few hasty steps back.

"No. But you do not look any older than my Father," Abrhvitr answered back honestly, her face still impassive.

Considering her Father was an elf and an ageless creature, this made sense. Murtagh still disliked the comparison.

"I am over two-hundred years old," Murtagh informed.

"Oh," she said, and Murtagh reveled in some of her shock. She ducked her head and seemed to inspect her bare feet for a moment before saying, "Well I am seven winters. This will be my eight summer and my first season from home."

The child said it with such conviction and pride that Murtagh snorted at her.

When he saw her lip tremble, Murtagh finally noted how much courage it must take to stand at his door, to have knocked and stood there. To hear his loud, impending steps before the door opened with a whoosh. He could hear Abrhvitr's fluttering heartbeat even with his lesser senses, and wondered if it was thundering in her own ears right now. Her face was not holding down the entire torment of emotions, but he could see she was trying very hard to. It made the rider question why she wanted to be friends with him if he still set her off edge.

When he replied to her strong declaration with a soft chuckle, his voice was rough and she blinked up at shock; Abrhvitr hadn't heard this pitch in any of the adult elves with their silken tones.

"A formidable age indeed."

It was a half-attempted joke, but she still beamed up at him. The sudden change in expression and heart almost made Murtagh loose his balance and tumble back.

"So you will be my friend, Rider?" Abrhvitr asked as she reached a hand out to Murtagh. But then she thought again and took it back without ever touching him. This was good, for even if she was a naive child, the dark-haired man didn't like to be touched by any except Thorn.

"I feel like you will not take no for an answer," Murtagh stated; "I am tied."

She nodded her head once, sharply so that her braids flopped a little. Murtagh sighed and ran a hand through some long bangs that had escaped from his pony-tail.

"Then it seems like I have no choice in this matter," he said breezily as Abrhvitr watched him attentively.

Murtagh had thought this exact thought when first coming to the forest, but repeating it in this situation didn't feel nearly so daunting. Because even if this girl was odd and reclusive, she was just a small thing looking for attention. Taking in a shallow breath, Murtagh remembered what he had been like when he was little and realized, as her eyes creased at the edges from her smile, that they were quite similar.

Or at least back then. Murtagh believed he'd grown up at least a little since.

"Now tell me your name and I will tell you mine," Murtagh said with a sigh.

* * *

Color theme **010: Gray**; Word Count: 1,700 (parts one and two being 500 words, part three at 700)

Posted on the 26th of February, 2011


	24. Where the Kettle Calls the Pot

**Where the Kettle Calls the Pot**

It was as if nothing had happened or been agreed on the next day in class. It made Murtagh think that maybe he had thought it all up. But then Abrhvitr looked up from their assignment of researching text to him and quickly looked away. She had never made eye contact with him in class sense she had brought him that butterfly; there definitely was change. So then why had she bashfully looked away?

Murtagh lifted an eyebrow in curiousity but then continued on, deciding to be as indifferent to it all if she was going to be.

The class time went by quick and soon the children were all heading towards their next class on their schedule (astrology if Murtagh was actually understanding the schedule). Abrhvitr looked back for only a moment to him while the rest fawned over Thorn, who was giving the familiar, pitiful keening sound of parting.

And Murtagh realized that he truly had agreed to be friends with an elf not even in the her double-digit years when she saw him appear in his field later that day. When she entered the field her breaths were loud from her sprint. Her cheeks were rosy for a moment from exertion.

She came and sat down next to him on the sandy bank without a word. Murtagh continued washing his pots and pans in the river as if he were still alone with Thorn.

"I hope you do not mind if we are not open of our frienship outside of here," she said suddenly.

Murtagh almost dropped the copper pot he'd been diligantly scrubbing in shock at hearing her voice over the calming waters. He turned to the elf and silently asked what she meant by such a pretentious statement.

"Well..." Abrhvitr drifted off as she tugged on her twin braids. "The others would obviously be envious of me. Because I am friends with you."

"Just because you agree to be friends with someone does not automatically make that relationship true," Murtagh stated. He hid how he found it amusing she thought others would be envious of her; he was for certain she was far from correct in her assumption. But he did not feel like telling her that just yet.

They sat in silence a little more, and Murtagh continued scrubbing. The faint aroma of his soap clung to the hot summer air like the sweat on the back of his neck.

Murtagh looked over and saw the Abrhvitr staring flatly at the tranquil waters that were being dotted with suds. He could practically hear her quesiton of how they could become friends hanging hovering above them, wanting to be asked but too afraid to.

This youngster, this Abrhvitr, was truly annoying. He'd rather have the elven boys who spoke their minds or the other elven girls who had a chronic obsession with combing their hair then this odd one.

"If you are going to just sit there, dry these," Murtagh ordered as he thrust the sandy, but clean, kitchen supplies towards her.

She sat there and stared at them in slight horror, maybe from the loud clangs, before she grabbed them along with the cloth Murtagh extended towards her.

He expected her to question why he didn't just use magic to do such menial chores like this, but she didn't and he was thankful for that. Truthfully, sometimes Murtagh liked to pretend he was normal and didn't have such a huge amount of power at the ready. Sometimes, when he did physical work, he felt simply human. Just another countless, bumbling imbecile and not the timeless being he was.

Drying the metallic things kept Abrhvitr occupied for some time, but then Murtagh could sense that she now had a statement, a fact she wanted to say, rather than the question she had let go. So when they were done with the cleaning and they had stacked the pots, pans and even a kettle away, Murtagh turned to her.

First she looked away and stretched her legs out like him, letting her pale shins get lost in the grains of sand while her feet tickled at the mixing colors of the water. As usual Thorn was in the middle of the pool he had created. His bright red was dulled, but was still easily seen through the translucent waters. Some fish could also be seen swimming about, a few brave ones nibbling at Thorn's impenetrable scales.

Then she turned up to Murtagh, her eyes squinting from the high-noon sun.

"You are bored," she said blankly. "I can see it in your eyes. They are dark."

Murtagh gave a slight snort of amusement before leaning back on his palms. Of course his eyes were dark - they were _dark brown_.

He looked back down at her and saw she was still staring up at him. Abrhvitr's face was full of such childish innocence and hope in being right and commended that Murtagh felt a headache already coming on. This certain elf just had to be curious about him.

"Am I right?"

Murtagh had to admit, she wasn't the worst thing that he had gotten attached to him. Thorn had to be up there (he ignored the snort of bubbles his dragon gave at the thought) as well as a looming evil that Eragon had cut away from him just in time before it consumed him as well.

Abrhvitr, in all her quirks that were blamed on winter, was really just a child still. He was like a new toy, a new plant that she had yet to fully figure out. Right now she was attempting to do just that. Murtagh held down a chuckle because, honestly, she had quite a ways to go to fully understanding him.

"I suppose you are correct," he finally answered to break their silence.

He had expected a grin at being correct, but instead she turned back to the river and narrowed her eyes.

"And you do not mind me here?" she asked next.

Murtagh shrugged; "Thorn and I do not mind very much. To us you are harmless like the birds." He left out the similar fleeting aspects they both had.

She wrinkled her small nose before saying, "I am not a bird."

"I see nothing gets by you," Murtagh answered dryly.

When she looked up to him with the smile he had been expecting, he knew right then, for sure, that she couldn't do them any harm.

_If she cannot do any harm, that must mean she can only do right,_ Thorn rumbled to his partner from the crystal water.

Murtagh gave a growl to his dragon, startling Abrhvitr still aside of him.

* * *

Color theme** 039: Aqua**; Word Count: 1,114

Posted on the 2nd of March, 2011

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**A note of personal thought**: I must admit, this is easily my favorite chapter so far. I hope you guys enjoyed it too :)


	25. Forget Me Nots

**Forget-Me-Nots**

Time passed and Abrhvitr came daily, her inhibitions of being near a tall human and even taller dragon gone.

Murtagh believed in the beginning, when she didn't talk much but just sat nearby, that she would grow bored of him. That Abrhvitr would get her sights and then she would be sprinting back off into her beloved forest in search for something else to be discovered. Soon she would get distracted on the way here by bright blue flowers and forget to come back.

Yet she returned with questions and growing courage.

She returned with company for this lonely partnership.

* * *

Color theme **064: Periwinkle**; Word Count: 100

Posted on the 5th of March, 2011


	26. Blink and Miss It

**Blink and Miss It**

Thorn sat in the river and created ripples with his heavy breathing.

It was the dead of summer, where it seemed even the pines wilted in the heat. Murtagh knew this was Thorn's least favorite season. It made the red dragon uncomfortable in his heavy scales he was usually so proud of.

Murtagh himself was taking a cue from his partner. He lied in the shallows of the sandy bank with a forearm draped over his eyes to combat the blinding sun above. Today was surely a day for lounging.

The rider heard his dragon calm his annoyance-filled breathing first, and then the movement of the sand aside of him.

Without lifting his eyes, Murtagh knew Abrhvitr was here for her daily visit. The smell of pine and dirt were prevalent on her, but also the heavy scent of lavender. As Murtagh's nose twitched at the pungent scent aplified from the heat, he remembered how her Mother was supposedly a master of herbs. She must have been helping in the garden, or had simply run through a few bushes of the pale purple flowers in her rush to get here.

He expected the elf to sit down aside of him, but instead he heard the splash of water. Murtagh sat up in response and watched the girl wade through the water, closer to Thorn.

Thorn, similarily, opened his eyes and peered out at her with barely hid excitement. Murtagh barely hid his snort of amusement.

While Abrhvitr had become comfortable around Murtagh in these past weeks, no longer as skittish as before, she had yet to truly approach Thorn. Murtagh did not understand why, as many elves had the natural affinity and trust with dragons from their truce many centuries ago. This made Thorn worry and fret as to why she did not favor him. Coincidentally this gave endless amusement to Murtagh. Unlike with the Abrhvitr problem, Thorn easily solved the Murtagh problem with a carefully aimed jet of fire.

Abrhvitr rose a hand out to the dragon still in the depths of the river.

Thorn lazily blinked his eyes a few times, as if waiting for her to take her hand back, but she stood with silent determination. Finally Thorn moved his head the small distance from the shore to where she stood waist-deep in the clear water.

Murtagh watched, not realizing the small smirk forming on his face, as Thorn lowered his massive muzzle into her tiny fingers.

He saw the slight jolt in her body from the feeling of the small scales behind her fingertips, but then she regained her composure. Soon she ran her hand over a texture she'd never felt before. Her other hand moved to feel the smooth, single spike of bone that protruded from Thorn's chin. The bone easily dwarfed Abrhvitr and Murtagh thought of how many children had sat from there, just like a thick pine branch to them.

Soon a deep rumbling came up from deep in Thorn's chest, and he nudged her, almost knocking the child into the water.

Abrhvitr suddenly leapt to Murtagh in a flash. Murtagh gave a sigh as he looked behind to see the elf, crouching behind his back in a poorly thought hiding position. He opened his mouth to say something, but Thorn spoke first.

_There is nothing to be afraid of_, Thorn said with a gentle keening sound.

"There is nothing to be cowardly over, either," Murtagh added.

Abrhvitr remained behind Murtagh.

Thorn rose from the river, water cascading down his magnificent form. The fire-breather even spread his membraned wings, clouding both Murtagh and Abrhvitr before him easily. Finally he slammed his paws down in the shallows, creating a swell that submerged both the kid and rider before the water receded back.

Murtagh had the urge to sigh at the unnecessary drama, but then he heard Abrhvitr finally stand up from behind his back. He looked back and saw her mouth slack in awe.

She returned to the bank of the river and lifted her hands up to him.

He gave a loud, deep rumble of happiness again and this time her offered hands only twitched for a moment. Thorn lowered his head towards her as he lied back down; Murtagh saw he did this with extra care so the elven girl would not be overtaken by another wave of water.

Thorn's eyes critically watched her as she petted his snout again with the utmost of care. Murtagh felt Thorn's worry that he had scared her, only getting attention through fear. The rider easily quieted these fears, sweeping them away by showing him the genuine amazement she felt from his showy act. Thorn's confidence grew as she continued to shower him with affection.

Eventually Murtagh got tired of watching the sappy scene. He lied back down with a huff and thoughts of how both were such shameless creatures.

He did not know how much time had passed when he woke, as the sun was just as hot and blinding when he woke. With a grunt Murtagh stood and looked across to see Abrhvitr sitting on the spike, her short legs swinging under her as she leaned into his scaled face. There was a serene smile on her face, one wider than Murtagh had ever seen before.

* * *

Color theme **011: Lavender**; Word Count: 885

Posted on the 12th of March, 2011


	27. Action and Reaction

**Action and Reaction**

Murtagh walked out his cabin, a yawn almost unhinging his jaw as he stretched his arms. While it was only mid morning, he could already feel the heat; a morning dip would be the perfect combatant.

He had just thrown his tunic over his shoulders when he saw that Thorn was not dozing alone. Abrivhr lied on him, her arms spread over his snout. Her hair was loose and it rose and fell with Thorn's huffs of air. Murtagh saw, as he approached closer, that her legs were in the water. Like how the fish nibbled at Thorn, they nibbled at the mud and seeds that were collected on her feet and between her toes from the forest.

Thorn opened his eye and gave a deep rumble as he told Murtagh,_ About time you rose. She arrived before sunrise._

Murtagh scoffed him away before he went to the edge of the water and jumped in.

When he came up, he saw that Abrhvitr was sitting up from her sprawled position on Thorn.

"Why don't you just come fully in?" Murtagh asked as he pointedly looked at her submerged legs.

She gave no answer, so Murtagh continued talking. "You know Thorn, I have noticed that elven folk do not have a keen interest in large bodies of water. They are the opposite of a forest, their natural home, so I understand why they would be afraid of water."

Not waiting for her to respond, Murtagh dunked his body back under. Holding his breath, he swam submerged back to the shore, where he surfaced with a gasp.

Abrhvitr stayed silent, even as he came and leaned against Thorn's neck, her mouth set in a straight line and her arms loosely crossed. It seemed like she was only bored, but Murtagh wondered if there was more. He had just insulted her entire race.

Murtagh tilted his head against Thorn in interest.

_She suffers because she is out of her season_, Thorn said to answer Murtagh's silent question.

Abrhvitr flopped down onto her back with a small huff.

Thorn's eyes darted to the subject of conversation, but quickly focused back on his rider. Murtagh snorted at his order, but went back into the cabin nonetheless.

Murtagh came out with a simple strip of cotton and it quickly turned a darker shade of khaki as he submerged it into the clear water It sprayed a few droplets onto his feet when he unceremoniously dropped it on Abrhvitr 's face.

Abrhvitr made a high yelp like that of a fox and her hands instantly rose to remove the wet fabric. When she moved it, she saw the looming persona of Murtagh with the added bonus of a frown. Murtagh snorted down at her before going back to his place against Thorn.

_Are you happy now?_ Murtagh asked Thorn.

_It is not I who you made happy_.

Annoyed at his dragon's playful tone, Murtagh opened his eyes and glanced over; Abrhvitr had replaced the cloth over her eyes.

* * *

Color theme **040: Khaki**; Word Count: 500

Posted on the 1st of May, 2011


	28. Midday Pondering

**Midday Pondering**

"Maybe you should roar at her. Then maybe she might leave."

Thorn huffed while Murtagh continued.

"She was afraid when you growled, making me wonder what a full roar might accomplish."

Murtagh left out how he was recently being a little offset by how well this child could read him without fear. She was no longer afraid of him, if she had ever been, and that made him uneasy.

His dragon took his advice, although it was to bellow at him instead. His bulk of glittering scales and rippling muscle leaped towards him with an earthquake before he unhinged his jaw and blasted him with hot breath and deafening sound. Thorn's hot breath hinted to the fire in his belly, although the heat was already so intense that Murtagh thought his face would melt off.

_She is just a child, _Thorn stated, his voice reverberating around Murtagh's skull in a hangover-reminiscent fashion.

Thorn's conviction forced Murtagh to blink his eyes and open his mouth, feeling like all the moisture had been stricken out from his body. He shook his head and took a moment to feel his face, finding the skin still intact, although his stubble was notably shorter. He was slightly relieved when he found his eyebrows were mostly unaffected.

_Because I was previously blind to that_, Murtagh finally snipped back.

Thorn moved his head so he was no longer staring down his snout but into one huge eye that glittered now with something akin to curiosity.

_You cannot deny it would be a sight_, Murtagh continued to talk,_ To see that ignorant child actually afraid of something? That she would run away and not return?_

Finally Thorn snorted in his dragon chuckle, and friendly smoke puffed out for a moment. Murtagh knew that his dragon was laughing more at him believing in the notion that the elf girl would not keep coming back. Oddly he was not angry that Thorn had more faith in the girl than in him; it showed just how much he adored the younger generations raised in peace.

Thorn blinked his eye, the color more of a topaz than the usual gold from the cloudy day, before he moved his body to wrap around Murtagh's much smaller one. Thorn curled his neck in a half-circle, allowing Murtagh to lean right where the curve of his mouth was.

Murtagh got the silent hint and began petting his dragon. No sooner had he begun did he feel Thorn's lips curve up in a smile against his back.

* * *

Color theme **032: Topaz**; Word Count: 423

Posted on the 17th of June, 2011


	29. Clashing Wills of Steel

**Clashing Wills of Steel**

Murtagh swung his Father's blade, the ruby glowing brighter than the fresh blood that spewed from sliced skin and sinew.

The rider waited for the irony-haze that rested over everything to settle and allow him to see the situation he was in and where Thorn had gone. They had never been separated, not since his hatching.

Another faceless figure flew towards him with a battle cry, his face hidden from his coppery-colored helmet; with a practiced lung and swing the mysterious person's head hit the ground with a squelched thud. It skidded, his face now visible as blood gushed from between his white teeth still clenched in hate and purpose.

Murtagh looked around again, slicking his hair back with the blood that dripped from his gloved hand. The ruby in the sword was the only light he could see and he needed clarity. As he looked around, he realized that he was elevated somewhat and when he turned he saw he was on a slope. He decided to climb.

When he reached the top there was a blinding, hot light and Murtagh looked up to see that Thorn had arrived, his giant wings throwing the putrid stench of decay to him.

"Thorn!"

He screamed it, but it was overtaken by a yell promising death form an unseen person.

It was then that Thorn opened his massive jaws, his usually pearl teeth glittering with a black, dripping liquid and his breath was hot miasma. He lowered his head for another growl, and it was here that Murtagh saw someone on his dragon's back.

Thorn dove then and Murtagh was too petrified to move from seeing his own dragon, his other half, coming at him with murderous intent. But he did not clamp him in two; it was the person on Thorn's back that was obviously the one with the right to kill.

Except it was Murtagh's own self he saw with that glowing, corrupting sword he had stolen from Eragon coming towards him.

He looked down again at himself and found the sword was gone, instead there was an ornate bow. He reached back and found a quiver, but all the arrows were gone. Thorn opened his mouth and fire spewed all around him, casting light on the hill he had thought was earth, but was truly mutilated corpses. He looked down and saw the bodies of once beautiful elves. Their faces were contorted in their pain of death and wrinkles, their eyes plucked out and mouths ripped open to expose lolling tongues. Their necks were bent at wrong angles, and limbs were obviously pulled out of their rightful sockets and bleached bone splintering out of their pale skin.

By the time Murtagh looked up he barely had enough time to see the sword coming towards-

He woke with a start and a silent yell, alarming Thorn aside of him.

_Did you see?_ Murtagh asked with a pant and a hand to his chest. Sometimes they had conjoining dreams, their bond so tight, but Murtagh hoped this one had only plagued him.

_I did not share whatever this dream was_, he answered back with a soft rumble.

Murtagh leaned back against Thorn's neck and put the hand that was not over his heart on his cool scales. He quickly showed the quickly dissipating dream to his dragon, who curled in on him more with each passing second of explanation.

_You have not had a nightmare in decades_, Thorn noted.

Murtagh grunted in reply, focusing on quieting his sprinting heart.

.

He distantly heard the clanging of flashing swords and the twain of bow strings, but mostly Murtagh did not take in all the weapon practice around him. It seemed empty both in skill, as it was the sapling elven he was waiting to finish, and with intent. These children looked like they were playing with toys, no matter how easily they could outmatch any regular human swordsman.

Murtagh looked over and watched that funny-named boy de-limbed a body of straw before splitting the lump from head to torso, no one straw falling before he was finished from his speed.

Narrowing his brown eyes now at three girls who let loose arrows at the same time, all to embed inches from the center, Murtagh wondered what he'd be like if he was a child born of peace. Would he be different, and if he was, would be want to be different? It sounded foreign, like the nomads' language, to think that he could be without that battle-lust that had plagued him for so long. At the least he wouldn't have a sword haunting him in his house or nightmares of realities past.

His eyes were taken away from the archer with a small snarl, and he saw it was Abrhvitr who had let out the soft exclamation. The taller girl was pulling on her white-silver hair almost to the point of lifting her up from the ground.

Murtagh lifted an eye from the chivalrousness fighting style and a moment later the teacher was making the older girl let go of Abrivhr's hair; the small girl did a good job of holding down her annoyance. Murtagh knew she loved her hair, if only to remind her of winter snow to combat the waning summer heat.

It seemed elven children did not hold any inhibitions from landing low-bows, something the teachers were clearly ashamed of. Yet what Murtagh knew was most shameful of all was how Abrhvitr danced around her opponent for too long, waiting for them to open up for her and never taking the initiative. Apparently it was thought cowardly; that other girl must have grabbed her hair to try and drag her in.

Murtagh heard the instructor whisper about finding a new partner for the other girl (apparently her name was Nuanenvindr; a vain name if anything) but Abrhvitr shook her head and only asked for a new sparring partner. The educator pursed her lips slightly, but did not argue. She simply took the two boys aside who were clashing swords and ordered them to switch.

Abrhvitr now stood before a new opponent, and Murtagh saw she didn't even bother tying her hair back up as one might guess. The boy seemed a little full of himself, and Murtagh suddenly had the feeling this would be an easy fight.

Ineed it was, as no more than a few seconds into the fight Abrhvitr quickly spun her legs, knocking the boy from his ankles and causing him to drop on his behind with a sharp yelp. As if to add insult to injury, Abrhvitr strode forward and sat upon his chest.

Then she truly shocked Murtagh for the first time when she looked over at him and grinned with light, red eyes.

Murtagh gave a single nod of praise as Thorn's booming laughter pounded at his temples.

.

"Teach me how to be better."

"Don't talk when I'm attempting to nap."

Murtagh had meant it as a light jab, but it seemed Abrhvitr took it seriously as she remained silent. When he finally opened his eyes to look across at her, sitting with her legs tucked under her, he sighed and sat up with a huff. He didn't give much care to the blade so of grass he felt fall off of his tunic.

"With what?" he asked, and Thorn perked up as well. It seemed neither of them cared about favoritism; she was their friend after all.

"I want to be a better swordsman," she said, her hands clasped at her knees. "I have read of your conquests, and how you nearly bested Eragon Worldsaver. He tricked you for the victory."

"Oh right," Murtagh said, absently rubbing his stomach that had been stabbed out of necessity.

"I implore you," she said as she leaned forward so now her forehead touched her knees, "Please teach me to best my opponents in an artful way."

_Get up, young one_, Thorn said, his deep voice rumbling in a comforting way. _We will help you._

It was much easier said then done, because once Abrhvitr had a wooden stick in her hair (because Murtagh was not going to get out any sharp objects when teaching swordsmanship to a kid, despite how the elves did just that) Murtagh realized he knew more about bloodshed-fighting than artful-fighting. No matter how much she may pester him, teaching her how to fight for example, he was not going to continue his war-born practices with a child of peace.

So he had to stand there and remember way back, back to when Tornac had first taken him when he was small and awkward. Soon the memories came back, and he absently hummed in the swell of bright emotions from it. Only when he heard Abrhvitr shift her feet in the grass did he remember.

"I'm going to start with the basics of what humans have to learn," he said as he bent his knees and got into stance. Abrhvitr mirrored his action in a flash.

Murtagh stood and walked up to her, using his own stick to touch on various parts of her body that needed to adjust to get a the stance exactly right. When he felt satisfied, he stood back. Any human child would be shaking at the knees from holding this position down for so long, but Abrhvitr was no human and she remained standing.

And so begun a grueling day of fighting (at least for the girl) as Murtagh easily blocked her attacks and caused her tumble down an uncountable amount. Soon Abrhvitr's hair was plastered to her damp temples and her bright white tunic was stained with blotches of green and brown.

It was odd how not nights before he had woken in fear of swordsmanship, and was now teaching it to the next generation. It gave an odd, settled feeling between his ribs that she would (hopefully) never have to use her swordsmanship in the brutal ways he had been forced to. He remembered when he had the childish innocence of swinging the sword, and he hoped that the feeling could continue for her as she grew up. That she would want to continue this deadly dance because she desired it and was challenged by the various forms and methods, not because it would save her from being chopped down.

In the day that had quickly passed to night, Murtagh did not find only displeasure with her fighting. He had seen her with a bow and arrow and thought she had been better with that weapon, but held back his curiousity as to why she wanted to fight with a sword.

_Because you do_, Thorn rumbled from across the clearing as Murtagh easily paried Abrhvitr.

Murtagh didn't want to believe it was true, but he realized it was when her eyes lit up ever time he moved, and how she could not stop hopping on the balls of her bare feet from excitement.

For the first time in a long, long time, Murtagh let a true cocky, crooked grin spread over his face. It was such a distraction Abrhvitr outright dropped her stick-sword.

_Now you have done it_, Thorn laughed.

* * *

Color theme: **047. Pewter**; Word Count: 1,875

Posted on the 26th of November

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On the elven name I made:

**Nuanenvindr **translates to 'beautiful air' of the ancient language and the explanation for that name will come in time.

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**A Lengthy Note**: So I finally got around to reading _Inheritance_, and it got me to finally get around to updating this story! I'm actually really surprised how easily my story fits and coincides with canon. Yet there are still some things that need to be fitted in, and there are obvious changes (like the Queen being alive). I hope you readers don't mind it's not exactly the same, but then why would you? Because this is fanfiction and you read for variability! Anyway, now that everything is revealed, I look forward to continuing with this little story. I hope you stick around as well.


	30. Namesake

**Namesake**

"Did you or Thorn pick his name? In the books I've read it states that the dragon usually picks their own name. Is this true?"

Murtagh tilted his head in thought; he couldn't remember exactly how it had happened. It had been a big blur of unconditional love for the tiny red thing and unconditional hatred at the king for hurting him. All he truly remembered was hearing the crack and seeing that slimy little thing cry out, and it had been the most glorious moment in his life.

Then Thorn rumbled, after he had nuzzled Murtagh for such feelings of affection (although humiliated from his baby-form), _We chose it together._

Abrivhr smiled. "I like that better. I feel it is almost cheating; why should dragons get to chose your names when every other race cannot?"

_Are you inferring that we are on the same level as everyone else?_ Thorn asked, and Murtagh knew the slight anger was only because she had involuntarily pricked his pride.

Abrivhr was quick to stammer an apology and retract her words, agreeing that dragons were far superior to even the wisest elf. This, naturally, made Thorn's chest swell to twice its normal size. And then, as if in an afterthought, she added, "Although it is nice to know you are similar to us in some regard."

"Thorn is more like you and me than I think either of us will fully realize," Murtagh said. He thought of his dragon's heartbreak centuries ago and frowned, for he was unsure if it was Thorn's or his anymore.

The elf sudden began fidgeting, and both partner's interests were perked from the uncharacteristic display.

"Why did you bring this up?" Murtagh asked, to try and wheedle whatever Abrivhr was hiding.

She looked up at Thorn and then ducked her head, her silver eyelashes hiding the dark red color of her eyes that Thorn's scales reflected at night. "I wanted to give you a nickname," she finally voiced out, so quiet the swaying trees almost blocked her out.

Murtagh rolled his eyes at the waves of bright pleasure Thorn felt, and truly thought he might start shaking his maimed tail like a common dog. Instead he nudged her, almost knocking her sideways from his eagerness for her to continue.

"I thought of Heartheavy," Abrivhr said with clear doubt. "It reflects how you feel so much with your huge heart, no matter if it be happiness or despair. It must be a burden to feel so much at times."

Murtagh thought of the oddness of the nickname, how bald and unflattering it was, but mostly how close to the truth she had gotten with it. Thorn himself gave a deep rumble of content and without a word Abrivhr leaped up to sit on his spike, her perch.

"I know that your name is much more fitting," she hummed as she began petting his scales. Although, with his massive size in comparison to hers, she only managed to reach three at the most.

"Because he's a thorn in my side constantly?" Murtagh asked in mock-annoyance. The rider could feel against his back the way Thorn's throat expanded from the smoke moving up to huff out.

Snort Thorn did, and then he twisted his head sharply, displacing Murtagh onto his back, and glared in mock-anger. Their facades quickly fell as Abrivhr's light laughter bubbled out. Then she began to hum and sing softly to Thorn and the dragon quelled anger he never truly had. Murtagh had a sneaking suspicion that the elf knew this, and just wanted to sing to the giant creature in thanks.

Murtagh had closed his eyes and focused on her high voice when Thorn thought, _She is much more beautiful now, both inside and out._

_You're just saying that because she's singing you a lullaby you big hatchling._

Yet Murtagh couldn't argue that he had not realized how easily she had surpassed the others in beauty. Before she had been drawn in on herself and plain, so forgetful even he did not give account to her. Now he could tell, despite her odd ways, others were catching onto her increasing glow as well. No longer did her white hair seem boring, but enlightening. How cliched, he thought, in relation to the 'ugly' one becoming the 'pretty' one through some unseen transformation.

_Is it cliched to make a young elf happy by an old, grumpy rider and his dragon? Not by flowers or a kiss from a boy?_ Thorn asked back.

Murtagh snorted, incredulous as ever.

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Color theme:** 025. Dandelion**; Word Count: 760

Posted on the 30th of November, 2011


	31. The Sibling Dynamic

**The Sibling Dynamic**

"Why did you decide to settle here?" Abrhvitr asked, her voice loud and sharp, as if afraid he wouldn't hear her. It scared away a few of the birds that had gathered around the grain stalks he'd just thrown.

Murtagh stopped his harvesting and tilted his face up, closing his eyes to the bright sunlight that tickled against his skin. It was _always_ questions with this little one.

"It was my brother's wish. He desired to give me safety."

"From the evil shades that stalk at night?"

Murtagh lowered his head now, the rim of his worn straw hat obstructing his face from her for a moment. He had thought the problem with those lurking spirits had been solved a century ago; it seemed he was wrong. It was odd, to hear of talk as if she believed something that dark could infiltrate this ancient forest.

Murtagh lifted his head back up and flipped it to the side, a twisted smile on his handsome face as he answered.

"No. He wanted me here to protect me from your people and others. Individuals who would not rest until they controlled me, so that I wouldn't be fearful of those intent to kill me in the name of peace," he answered in length. Abrhvitr slowly nodded after a few minutes of contemplation.

"At the least, here in the forest you roam," she stated with confusion, her silvery eyebrows drawing together to further enhance the emotion. It would be obvious that she, who ran around at all hours of the night (despite these still remaining shades), would think being able to leap over fallen pine trunks and chase woodland animals would solve all problems.

"You stay here because you desire it. I remain here because I must. That frame of mind changes everything I perceive," he said as his twisted smile widened. Abrhvitr's shoulders hunched up, and Murtagh wondered if she was uncomfortable because of his smile or his words. He decided to drop both and resume his harvest.

She was silent, and the only sound was the '_sluck_' of his sickle blade as he cut down more golden-brown wheat. He thought of how convenient this strain of grain was from the elves, as it did not have to coincide with the seasons (except winter) for it to grow, and it was not as lengthy as regular wheat. Or that was what he believed, as Eragon had had this odd fascination of telling him how to farm when he was drunk at the Blood-Oath ceremony. Murtagh had thought it annoying at the time, but later had come to appreciate it.

"Maybe..."

Her voice broke his reminising, and Murtagh snapped out, "What? I dislike it when someone never finishes what they've begun."

"What if you half brother believed you could be healed here more than what he could do for you? Like he did for that blind human?" Abrhvitr quickly blurted out.

This made Murtagh pause in his cutting and he felt Thorn perk up from the riverbed as well.

"Wouldn't that be interesting," he decided to state, wondering why he hadn't thought of that before. Maybe hate and rage still clouded his emotions towards Eragon more than he believed. Maybe Murtagh had stomped so much in his rage to understand he had muddied up something that hadn't been complicated at all.

His mind leaped to the dragon eggs again, safely waiting for their days of awakening and glory. He had not been out of the forest since Eragon had called him, and he wondered if the world outside would welcome a new rider.

"So you and Eragon Sladeslayer... what is it like to have a brother the histories and all of Alagaësia constantly proclaim about?"

Murtagh only offered a grunt.

"You are the elder?"

This time he answered with words and another bitter grin: "Yes, I am the older one."

"Did that curtail your looking after him? That you had responsibilities over him?"

"Not exactly; I think Eragon took better care towards me than I did him," he answered truthfully. "The time didn't allow any sibling affection past the desire to not kill each other." Murtagh paused his laboring and turned to her, saying in a low rough voice, "No matter how much your people may sing of nature and this world in peace, Abrhvitr, it is still cruel."

"I do not believe the world is as cruel as you paint it. You are here," she said defiantly.

"Yet what did I have to commit to get here?" Murtagh asked out.

Abrhvitr turned away and, like a true elf refusing to admit defeat, changed the subject. "I don't think you seem that weathered."

"That implies you see me as old," Murtagh said with a notched eyebrow.

"Not old. Just... _older_."

* * *

Color theme: **018. Brown**; Word Count: 800

Posted on the 4th of December, 2011

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**A Small Note**: I just want to say THANKS for the support everyone :)


	32. Follow Along

**Follow Along**

The first signs of fall were approaching (that tingling-sting in the lungs from icy air in the morning, the animals changing color or places, bright red cranberry bushes) when Murtagh felt a tingle at the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the frost. He sat up from his position at the sandy bank, absently dusting off his leggings from the sand.

When he turned, he saw a woman in his clearing he had never seen before, but who Thorn reminded had a familiar scent. Even from the distance Murtagh noted her hair was of a deep silver and her eyes were of the lightest blue he'd ever seen. It took him a moment, after staring at her hauntingly beautiful face, that this was Abrhvitr's mother. They did not look similar, and Murtagh had never seen them together, and maybe that was why it took him a moment to make the connection.

Murtagh moved until he was at the edge of the clearing; she seemed to sniff at his lack of poise before coming forward to meet him. Thorn stayed still, and Murtagh allowed him to see through his eyes. Thorn had a similar reaction to seeing someone so almost-unearthly beautiful.

"Good morning," Murtagh said and found in annoyance that his voice cracked from sleep he'd just woken from.

"The sun has yet to rise," she replied back, her voice lighter than he thought it would be.

"Ah," Murtagh said, unsure of any words that would be fitting to his slight hiccup. Even if the sun wasn't up yet, it would be in mere moments from the soft rays beginning to spread over the pine tops. She didn't need to get so technical over something like a light greeting.

They sat there in silence, and Murtagh saw a flock of sparrows take off from a branch above this elf's head. He cleared his throat before asking, "Can I help you with something?"

She stared unblinking at him, her so-blue-almost-silver eyes never leaving him, before she turned and took slow steps towards his garden. Not knowing what else to do, the rider ambled after her softly, wondering if she minded how he wasn't wearing any shoes at the moment. From her free-spirited daughter who had mud on her feet more than footwear, Murtagh supposed it really shouldn't bother her.

It seemed something else, instead, bothered her as she spoke out, "Your garden is pathetically minuscule; pitiful really."

Murtagh knew she had something against him the moment he'd felt that all-to-familiar hatred come his way, but that was an odd way of showing her distaste in him. If she hadn't turned to look at him the next moment, he might have chuckled.

"I do not appreciate you approaching my daughter out of class."

Murtagh thought to put in how Abrhvitr was the one who always came out in an explosion of pine needles from the forest to see him, but decided to hold his tongue. He waited for her to continue and give a request rather than just passive-aggressive statements.

"I want you to stay away from her."

_Well, that was direct,_ Thorn's deep voice rumbled in Murtagh's head, and he heard the water move. The elf's eyes darted from behind him, and he almost smirked at the smell of caution finally creep into her scent.

"And if I don't?" Murtagh asked out as he crossed his arms over his chest. He absently gripped his sleeves as his hands formed fists.

She pursed her lips, but before she could say anything, Murtagh continued. "And even if I told her to stop, she would still come. I thought she would tire of me quickly, but she still returns."

"That nymph," the woman hissed softly, and Murtagh wondered if that was affection or frustration in her voice. Unlike her daughter, this elf wasn't the easiest to see through. "Why does she keep coming back?" she added softly.

Ignoring yet another hint at his inadequate self, Murtagh shrugged before turning away back to the bank and his dragon.

He heard her huff lightly, something that almost made him turn in curousity (because elves did not huff; it was uncultured) before he heard her steady footsteps leave the clearing.

_She huffed at our garden. What a strange elf_, Thorn informed him as Murtagh came up to his snout and began petting him.

_She is a gardener_, Murtagh reminded. _And all those elves are odd things._

_Interesting how a mother as powerful as her cannot control her daughter_, Thorn hummed, as if approvingly.

_This _is _Abrhvitr._

Thorn gave a booming bark of laughter before nudging Murtagh affectionately.

.

The next time Abrhvitr came to visit the partnership, something glittered around her neck. Upon further proximity, they saw it was a chain of interlocking golden leaves that made Murtagh's ears ring and for Thorn's throat to constrict. Both felt an itch under their skin or scales and it made them have the strong desire to crawl out of their selves like never before.

When Abrhvitr got halfway through the field, Murtagh ground his teeth and ran to meet her before she got closer to Thorn and made him more uncomfortable. Yet when Murtagh moved to grab her shoulder to stop her, he winced and held back his fingers. It had felt like his bones were of fire.

"Rider?" she asked softly, and made a move to grab his wrist. Murtagh easily side-stepped her, squirming out of her touch.

She looked offeneded, as her eyebrows curved in and her mouth hung open the slightest bit, but no words came.

"Don't touch me, I stink," he lied quickly and weakly.

"You do not stink," she giggled as she tried to come closer to him again.

Now his head felt like a stone of lead, and his barely felt his toes. "Don't come any closer!" he snapped. He wanted to yell for her to get away, because obviously her mother had decided to get her father to make a bewitched charm against them (how, he did not know, but they were from the North).

Yet she was just a child and did not know that her parents, at least mother, did not care for him and were plotting to get her to stay away. Murtagh knew he would not give in either to telling her or the enchantment, so he let her sit aside of him at the cabin as he sharpened his arrows. Thorn restlessly turned in the water and refused to talk to Abrhvitr in fear of offending her in his aggravated state. She kept looking over at him, but had learned long ago to give him space when he desired. So, naturally, her interest intensified on the person aside of her.

"What are they for? I've never seen you shot," Abrhvitr said quickly. Murtagh wondered if she was doing it to ease the tension in his body (as his brain still felt like it would slip out of his ears soon), or because she was nervous at his and Thorn's mysterious agitation.

"I'm going hunting tomorrow," he said, the words clipped.

"May I come?"

"I don't think killing and cleaning a deer is something you, who eat like a rabbit, would want to see."

"Oh," she says smartly as she looked back down to her intertwined fingers.

Abrhvitr showed her childish uncertainty as she sat the better of an hour in silence, not sure of what to say to get Murtagh as relaxed as he had become around her. Not even that first day she'd appeared to him had be been so spine-straight and she ran circles in her mind wondering why.

"Do I stink?" she finally asked, wondering if his rebuke earlier was a hint.

_No, child, but your necklace does_, Thorn rumbled for the first time since her arrival.

Murtagh shot him a glare and would have thrown the arrow in his hand towards the dragon if it would have done any good.

She stood with a huff that Murtagh now knew who she'd picked up from, before purposefully walking back into the forest.

_I should have explained more_, Thorn whined once the throbbing in their minds and bodies had stopped.

_She'll figure it out eventually. For now, good riddance, _Murtagh sighed as he scratched at his skin that didn't feel like it had a flaming sunburn on it anymore.

_You offended her caretaker, what do you expect?_

Murtagh sat up, offended, before he snapped, _I am not the one who she makes come here. If it's anyone, it's _you_ who spoils her and makes her want to return. But no, Murtagh the pathetic human gets all the blame, never his magnificent Thorn Cerimsonfire!_

_I am going to assume this is frustration at the necklace speaking,_ Thorn growled.

Murtagh huffed and hit his head against the side of his cabin, feeling the sun-bleached wood rub against his head like unspoken explanations.

.

It did not take as long as either Murtagh or Thorn believed it would, as the tiny elf appeared on the riverbed boulders the next day. She appeared only moments after the sun had peaked out from behind the curtain of trees, and her hair had a yellowish hue as she stood with the new sun at her small back.

Her head was lowered and the partnership instantly noted her hair was the only relatively golden thing on her.

"Dad explained how mother made him sing an enchantment on the necklace to ward you away," Abrhvitr said with her head remaining ducked, so her chin sat between her collarbones.

"Then why did you take it off and return if I'm so supposedly dangerous to your well being?" Murtagh practically snorted, not bothering to sit up from his sprawled position on Thorn's snout. From his position he couldn't see his dragon's eyes, but he was sure Thorn was glaring at him from his callous attitude. The red dragon had been worried, and Murtagh was convinced it had rubbed off on him.

Because he hadn't worried. Of course he hadn't. No.

"I'm not afraid! I am strong like my ancestors of war!" Abrhvitr yelled in indignation. Her sharp voice, like a dagger to the gut, startled Murtagh almost to the point of toppling off Thorn.

After he sat up and he shook her statement away; he tried vainly to ignore the slight sinking in his stomach. After swallowing twice, Murtagh voiced, "So why did you return, if your mother is so against my presence?"

"Is that not obvious as this day?" Abrhvitr asked as she at down nearby him, swinging either leg over one of Thorn's neck-spikes.

When he narrowed his eyes, he noted that the tips of her sharp ears were blushed. He felt a bitter smile on his face despite her obvious affection, because her statement about a war past made him acutely aware of why her mother was afraid for her daughter. Murtagh wondered briefly if she had fought in the battle for the land, and thought she had looked refined enough to have. Not everyone strode into his domain and casually insulted his toilsome garden.

This was not the first time he thought that Abrhvitr should not be in his vicinity on such blind and trusting friendship, and Murtagh was sure it would not be the last.

Yet, for the time being, he said breezily, "Do as you please," before lying back down.

_Good thing you returned, hatchling_, Thorn's voice finally spoke, _else Murtagh would continue being in a mood._

"I was not," his rider argued back indignantly.

Thorn gave a snort of smoke that had Murtagh hacking and sputtering, Abrhvitr free of the smoke from her higher elevation on Thorn's neck. When Murtagh's eyes stopped tearing and he could see without grey obstructing, he turned and saw the elf was smiling, her sharp teeth gleaming.

"Regardless, I do not find favor in flashy gold," she sniffed as she leaned back from the spike onto Thorn's scales, her smile now more subdued.

_What color do you prefer?_ Thorn asked.

"Crimson," she said with a smile and giggle that quickly became overtaken by Thorn's deeper laughter.

Murtagh rolled his dark eyes, wondering who was sucking up to who anymore.

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Color theme: **020. Golden**; Word Count: 2,050

Posted on the 10th of December, 2011


	33. Catch and Release

**Catch and Release**

The day was slightly overcast, and Murtagh cursed the sun refusing to come out. The day just had to be cloudy and the water dark when he wanted to fish. On the days he needed to weed his garden or hunt, the sun was always bright and in his eyes, but when he needed it of course it would retreat behind clouds. Yet it seemed his luck wasn't entirely run out as he felt a tug and then the definite pull of a bite.

He exclaimed out an excited holler, alarming Abrivhr who had been weaving aside of him, before he yanked the pole and the fish sprung out from the water. He let it hang in the air, flopping and dripping lamely, before he caught it and unhooked it.

He held the large fish proudly, its scales glistening and gills wildly extended and contracted to try and adjust. He was going to eat well tonight.

Abrivhr threw aside the new straw hat she'd been making Murtagh and grabbed the fish before throwing it back into the mini-lake. It did not waste a second after it hit the water's surface to swim away.

Murtagh stared at his now-empty hands and thought of his still-empty stomach before turning to her, feeling his shoulders hunch in barely-contained anger. That had been his dinner! He had been recalling what recipe to use in excitement!

"What was that for?" Murtagh asked as he stalked the short distance over to her, looming above her with his height and frown.

"It had been dying and scared," she said, her voice tight.

Murtagh huffed again, his shoulders now up to his ears, but then Thorn came in and took away his anger without even twitching from his sprawled position among the yellow wildflowers. Now feeling like a fool, Murtagh sighed and ran a hand through his long hair. When he turned back to Abrivhr, he saw she was now the tense one.

"Now what am I going to eat?" he asked with a defeated air.

Her eyes lit up at that, and she hurried to pull something out from her tunic. She opened the small pouch and held it up for him to look into. Murtagh saw a variety of colors, and his nose twitched at the sweetness. It was a variety of berries, all seeming to be picked at their ripest (because of course the elves never took the life of anything remotely young) and he could have fit the small amount easily in the palm of one hand.

Murtagh had all intentions to snort, push her away and resume fishing, but Thorn interrupted again. While before the dragon had been gracious by taking his rider's annoyance, this time he gave an ominous growl.

Feeling cornered, Murtagh felt a pang of empathy for the fish (that quickly turned to jealousy as it had been released).

Sighing, the rider extended his hand and Abrivhr gave the berries to him with a small smile.

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Color theme: **082. Jazzberry;** Word Count: 500

Posted on the 17th of December, 2011


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